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"IStWiltiiDH  IIBB. 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

Education 
GIFT  OF 


Louise  Barrow  Barr 


-<a^:j) 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

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littp://www.archive.org/cletails/floweroffamilyboOOprenrich 


THE 


Flower  of  the  Family 


A    BOOK   FOR    GIRLS 


MRS.    E.    PRENTISS 

Author  of  "The  Susie  Books,"  "Ste^p^ng  Heavenumrd,"  "The 
Percys,"  etc.,  etc. 


"Though  I  have  a  rooting  here. 
Which  holds  me  downward,  yet  in  my  desire 
To  that  which  is  above  me  1  aspire; 
And  all  my  best  affections  I  profess 
To  Him  that  is  the  Sun  of  Righteousness" 

— WlTH«« 


New  Stereotype  Edition,  with  an  Introductoty  Note, 


New  York 
ANSON    D.    F.  RANDOLPH   &  COMPANY 

182  FIFTH  AVENUE. 


vJopyrtght,  1883, 
Amson  O.  F.  Randolph  &  CoMPAa> 


Sducation 
GIFT 


BT.  JOHNLANM  ••KINIKD    B> 

fTBKEOTYFF    FOtTNDRY,  EDWAtfn    O      rRVtriM* 

8UFFOIJC   CO.,   N.   Y.  SO   NORTH   WILLIAM    ST..    I 


NO  T  E 

TO  THE  PRESENT  EDITION, 


library 


With  the  exception  of  "Stepping  Heavenward,^'  no  one  of 
Mrs.  Prentiss'  larger  books  has  had  so  wide  a  circulation, 
both  at  home  and  abroad,  as  The  Flower  of  the  Family. 
A  French  translation,  entitled  "La  Fleur  de  la  Famille* 
has  passed  through  five  or  six  editions.  It  was  also  trans- 
lated into  German  under  the  title,  "Die  Perle  der  Farnilie' 
In  both  languages  it  received  the  warmest  praise.  The  work 
depicts  a  marked,  type  of  the  family  life  of  thirty  years  ago, 
which  is  becoming  rare  in  our  own  day;  and  on  this  account, 
as  well  as  for  its  intrinsic  merits,  deserves  to  be  reprinted. 
Its  aim  cannot  be  better  expressed  than  in  the  following 
extract  from  a  letter  of  Mrs.  Prentiss  to  a  friend,  written 
soon  after  its  publication  in  18^4: 

I  long  to  h  ive  it  doing  good.  I  never  had  such  desires  about  anything  in  my  life: 
and  I  never  sat  down  to  write  without  first  praying  that  I  might  not  be  suffered  to 
write  anything  that  would  do  harm,  and  that,  on  the  contrary,  I  might  be  taught 
to  say  what  would  do  good.  And  it  has  been  a  great  comfort  to  me  that  ei>ery  word 
of  praise  I  have  ever  received  from  others  concerning  it  has  been  "  it  will  do  good," 
and  this  I  have  had  from,  so  many  sources  that,  amid  tnuch  trial  and  sickness  ever 
since  its  publication,  I  have  had  rays  of  sunshine  creeping  in  now  and  then  to  cheer 
and  sustain  me. 

Numberless  testitnonies  to  its  usefulness  continued  to  cheer 
her  to  the  end  of  her  days, 

G.  Z.  P, 

N«w  York,  Sept.,  1883. 


277 


Jf  an  our  daily  course  our  mind 
Be  set  to  hallow  all  we  find. 
New  treasures  still,  of  countless  prici, 
God  will  provide  for  sacrifice. 

Old  friends,  old  scenes  will  lovelier  be. 
As  more  of  heaven  in  each  we  see; 
Some  softening  gleam  of  love  and  prayet 
Shall  dawn  on  every  cross  and  care. 

We  need  not  bid,  for  cloistered  cell. 
Our  neighbor  and  our  work  farewell. 
Nor  strive  to  wind  ourselves  too  high. 
For  sinful  man  beneath  the  sky. 

The  trivial  round,  the  common  task. 

Would  furnish  all  we  ought  to  ask: 

Room  to  deny  ourselves;  a  road 

To  bring  us  daily  rearer  God, 

— Keblk, 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTEB  L 

OOMFORa^BLE  TROUBLES  ..••••         9 

CHAPTEB  n. 

TROUBLE   BEARING   FRUIT 19 

CHAPTER   m. 

HOMELY   DISCIPLINE 27 

CHAPTER  IV. 

ARTHUR •  •  .      35 

CHAPTER  V. 

6ABT   NUMBER  TWO .45 

CHAPTER  YL 

SORROW  AT  NIGHT,   JOY   IN   THE  MORNING  •  •  •      GG 

CHAPTER   Vn. 

THE  uncle's  YISIT  ••••••,80 

CHAPTER   VnL 

NEW   SCENES   AND    NEW    FRIENDS 98 


VI  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER   IX 

A  GLIMPSE  AT   ** SOCIETY"         .  •  •  «  ,  ,    111 

CHAPTER  X. 

THE   SIXTEENTH    BIRTHDAY        .  •  •  .    126 

CHAPTER   XL 

GOOD   INTENTIONS,    IF   NOT   GOOD   WORKS  .  •  .  .139 

CHAPTER   Xn. 

THE  CONSEQUENCES   OP  A   PRESCEIPTION    .  •  .  153 

CHAPTER   XnL 

THE  STORM  BEFORE  THE  CALM 167 

CHAPTER   XIV. 

OASES  OP  CONSCIENCE 186 

CHAPTER  XV. 

THE   SEA-SIDB 196 

CHAPTER   XVL 

LIFE  AT   SCHOOL •  •  210 

CHAPTER   XVIL 

THE   HOLIDAYS  .      '      . 229 

CHAPTER   XVnX 

LUCY  IN  TROUBLE ,  .  .    243 

CHAPTER   XIX. 

A  YISIT   PROM   MISS   PRIGOTT,  AND  WHAT   IT   LED    TO  .  .259 


CONTENTS.  VII 

CHAPTER   XX 

EITERY   LIFE   HAS   ITS   ROMANCE 27fi 

CHAPTER   XXL 

A   NOT   AGREEABLE   SURPRISE 290 

CHAPTER   XXn. 

SHOWS   THE   CLOUDS   DISPERSING 300 

CHAPTER   XXTEI. 

A   RESOLVE «  .  .    312 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

A   RELIEP 323 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

A  SHADOW 335 

CHAPTER   XXVL 

THE  BBOEEN   CIRCLE         .......    345 

CHAPTER   XXVn. 

i  NEW   HOHB  .......    357 


THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  FAMILY. 


o'iOic 


CHAPTER  L 


COMFORTABLE  TROUBLES. 


1^1  HE  baby  is  crying,  Lucy;  won't  you  come 
^  mk     down  and  take  him  a  few  minutes  ?  "  said 
a  voice  from  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 


Lucy  sighed  heavily,  and  threw  down 
upon  the  table  before  her,  with  a  gesture  of  im- 
patience, a  book  on  which  she  had  been  intent. 

"He's  always  crying,  I  do  believe,"  she  said  to 
herself,  as,  casting  a  farewell  glance  at  books  and 
papers,  she  went  slowly  down  to  soothe  the  cries, 
from  which  her  sensitive  ear  shrank  as  from  the 
sound  of  a  trumpet. 

"I'm  sorry  to  interrupt  you,  dear,"  said  her  mo- 
ther, "but  baby  will  not  be  still  any  longer,  and 
here  are  my  hands  in  the  bread.  Just  take  him  up 
a  minute,  and  I  will  soon  be  ready  for  him." 

Lucy  took  the  child,  and  as  his  cries  of  discontent 
gave  place  to  a  smile  of  delight,  she  put  down  the 


10  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

ungracious  feeling  that  struggled  for  the  victory, 
and  kissed  his  round,  rosy  cheek,  more  than  once. 

*'I  can't  help  loving  you,  though  you  are  such 
a  little  torment,"  she  said.  "People  call  children 
troublesome  comforts;  I  don't  wonder,  Tm  sure." 

"J  call  them  comfortable  troubles,"  returned  her 
mother,  glancing  fondly  upon  them  both.  *'  One 
must  have  trouble  in  some  shape,  and  this  is  the 
best  of  all.'* 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Lucy;  "but  we  have  a 
great  many  other  troubles,  besides." 

"What,  for  instance?"  asked  the  mother,  whose 
energies  were  not  all  concentrated  upon  the  bread. 

"Oh  dear!  there  are  plenty  of  them,  if  it  comes 
to  that,"  replied  Lucy.  "  In  the  first  place,  you  and 
father  have  to  work  so  hard." 

"Well?" 

"And  we  are  so  poor;  and  the  boys  are  so  noisy; 
and  I  can't  go  to  school ;  and  a  new  baby  comes  so 
often;  and  it  tires  me  when  I  think  it  will  always 
be  so." 

The  mother  sighed,  and  kneaded  the  dough  with 
a  wearied  hand. 

"Yes,  it  is  all  true,"  said  she.  "It  is  all  true.  I 
wish  I  could  shield  you  from  these  troubles,  my 
child;  but  I  cannot.  By  and  by,  as  the  children 
get  older — then — but  I  don't  know,  I  can't  see  far 
ahead  myself." 


COMFORTABLE    TROUBLES.  11 

"As  fast  as  the  children  get  older,  some  mora 
keep  coming,"  said  Lucy,  despondingly. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  her  mother;  "but  they'll 
get  over  that  by  and  by;  and  you  shall  have  more 
time  to  study  than  youVe  had  lately.  Rebecca  shall 
stay  home  and  help  me." 

'•''That  won't  do,"  returned  Lucy.  She  walked  to 
the  window,  and  stood  looking  out,  in  gloomy  silence. 

Her  mother  finished  her  work  in  silence  equally 
profound,  took  ofi"  the  clean  checked  apron  in  which 
it  had  been  performed,  and  approaching  the  window, 
ofiered  to  take  the  child. 

"Now,  dear,"  said  she. 

But  the  child,  pleased  with  its  new  position,  hung 
back,  smiling,  and  clasping  its  little  arms  closer 
around  Lucy's  neck. 

"How  the  little  fellow  loves  you,"  cried  her  mo- 
ther. "It's  such  a  pity  he  isn't  fond  of  Rebecca.  I 
wonder,  by  the  way,  where  the  child  is,  and  Hatty 
too.     It's  high  time  they  were  all  here." 

"It's  half-past  five,"  said  Lucy,  "and  they  cught 
to  be  home,  I'm  sure.  But  this  is  always  the  way  I 
Just  because  I  want  to  study." 

"  You  can  study  now,"  said  her  mother  gently,  and 
taking  the  baby  from  her. 

"No,  I  can't;  it's  time  to  get  tea,"  returned  Lucy. 
"  And  it's  Rebecca's  week  to  get  tea.  But  she's  taken 
herself  off,  nobody  knows  where." 


12  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

Ungracious  in  word,  but  not  in  deed,  Lucy  went 
now  and  filled  the  tea-kettle,  and  arranged  the  fire 

"  I  wouldn't  do  that,  dear,"  said  her  mother.  '*  If 
Rebecca  finds  she  can  depend  on  you  to  do  her  work 
for  her,  there'll  be  no  end  to  the  trouble." 

"But  father  will  be  in,  next  news,  wanting  his 
supper.  Besides,  I  see  the  boys  coming  up  the  road, 
and  they'll  be  hungry  too." 

She  hurried  about,  cutting  bread,  skimming  milk, 
and  arranging  plates  and  knives  with  neatness  and 
precision. 

"She's  worth  a  dozen  of  Rebecca,"  thought  her 
mother.  "  Where  can  that  child  be  ?  It's  too  bad  ! 
Now,  baby,  you  must  sit  in  the  cradle  awhile  and 
let  mother  help  sister  Lucy." 

She  seated  the  child  snugly  amid  pillows,  gave  him 
a  tin  plate  and  pewter  spoon  for  his  amusement,  and 
hastened  to  relieve  Lucy.  Baby  began  forthwith  to 
raise  a  noise  suited  to  his  peculiar  taste,  by  means  of 
a  series  of  irregular  thumps  of  the  spoon  upon  the 
plate.  While  he  pursued  this  pastime  with  great 
energy,  the  boys  rushed  in  from  school. 

"There  you  go!"  shouted  John  to  his  books,  ae 
he  threw  them  down,  "and  good  enough  for  you, 
you  old  plagues!  Is  supper  ready?  I  hope  so,  for 
I'm  as  hungry  as  three  bears." 

"  One  bear  will  do,"  said  his  mother,  smiling,  and 
patting  his  shoulders.     "Bat  where  are  the  girls?* 


COMFORTABLE    TROUBLES.  13 

"Why  Rebecca  is  creeping  along  on  the  road 
somewhere.  She'll  get  here  by  midnight,  I  dare 
say.  And  Hatty  had  to  stay  in.  She  blotted  hei 
writing-book,  and  then  went  and  got  angry  about 
it,  and  so  she's  got  to  stay  in  till  she's  learned  a 
chapter  in  the  Bible." 

*'  Why,  Rebecca ! "  said  her  mother,  as  this  young 
lady  came  leisurely  in:   "where  have  you  been?" 

"Why,  nowhere,  mother:  I  came  straight  home 
from  school." 

*'  But  you  should  have  been  home  in  time  to  get 
tea.     Here's  Lucy  has  had  to  do  it  for  you." 

*'  I  came  as  fast  as  I  could,  mother,"  said  Rebecca. 
"Susan  Turner  and  I,  we  came  along  together.  I 
couldn't  come  running  up  the  hill  as  the  boys  did. 
And  Lucy  needn't  have  went  and  got  tea.  She 
knew  I  was  coming." 

"Needn't  have  went!''  said  John;  "let's  hear  you 
parse  that,  do  !  " 

"  I  wish  I  could  shake  you  and  Lucy  up  together," 
said  her  mother,  as  she  contrasted  Lucy's  hurried, 
rather  excited  step,  with  Rebecca's  slow  pace.  "It 
would  improve  you  both.  But  run  now,  and  call 
father.  Tell  him  tea  is  on  the  table.  And  come 
here,  all  of  you,  and  wash  your  faces,"  she  added, 
as  the  boys  prepared  themselves  for  an  onset  upon 
the  table.  But  at  this  auspicious  moment,  the  baby's 
energetic  spoon  Hew  up  with  great  force  upon  hig 


14  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAI^IILY. 

fair,  high  forehead,  instead  of  the  plate  at  which  th«i 
blow  was  aimed. 

Down  fell  spoon  and  plate,  and  up  went  shout 
after  shout  of  baby-terror  and  pain.  Everybody  ran 
to  see  what  was  the  matter;  everybody  tried  to  catch 
up  and  appease  the  poor  little  victim ;  yet  somehow 
it  was  in  Lucy's  arms  that  he  was  borne  off;  and  it 
was  Lucy's  hand  that  bathed  the  aching  head,  and 
Lucy's  voice  that,  now  melted  into  the  tones  of  ten- 
derest  love  and  pity,  finally  soothed  and  hushed 
those  grievous  cries. 

*'  Oh,  what  a  bump  there  is  on  his  forehead  ! "  said 
Rebecca,  who,  as  usual,  arrived  at  the  scene  too  late 
to  offer  anything  more  than  an  exclamation  of  horror. 

"I'll  keep  him  while  you  are  at  supper,  mother," 
said  Lucy  now  quite  lost  to  farther  thought  of  self, 
in  sympathy  for  the  child.  "He'll  soon  get  over 
it.     I'll  take  him  out  of  doors." 

She  went  out,  kissing  him  as  she  went  along, 
and  as  soon  as  they  reached  the  open  air,  found 
herself  repaid  by  the  brilliant  smile  that  lighted 
up  the  tears  with  which  the  blue  eyes  were  brimful. 

"There  ought  to  be  a  rainbow  somewhere,"  said 
she,  holding  the  baby  up  to  the  window,  where 
he  could  be  seen,  and  pointing  out  his  tears  and 
smiles;  "for  it  rains  and  shines  at  the  same  time.** 

"You're  the  rainbow  yourself,"  said  hei  father, 
giving  her   one   of  his   own   rare,   precious   smilet 


COMFORTABLE    TROUBLES.  15 

Lucy  turned  quickly  away,  with  a  blush  of  shame 
upon  her  cheek  that  no  reproof  could  have  burned 
there. 

"He  didn't  hear  me  fretting  when  mother  called 
me,"  thought  she.  "  He  doesn't  know  how  cross 
and  selfish  I  was.  If  he  had,  he  wouldn't  have 
called  me  a  rainbow.  He'd  have  called  me  a  thun- 
der-cloud I " 

And  the  "  thunder-cloud "  relieved  itself  of  a  few 
large,  heavy  drops,  and  grew  lighter.  She  went  in 
to  supper,  giving  the  baby  to  her  mother.  They 
had  all  risen  from  the  table,  and  as  she  seated  her- 
self, she  perceived  that  not  a  morsel  of  bread  re- 
mained for  her. 

"  I  should  think  somebody  might  have  cut  a  slice 
of  bread  for  me,"  thought  she.  "But  it's  always 
the  way.     Nobody  cares  whether  1  eat  or  not." 

At  this  moment  her  brother  Arthur  came  run- 
ning up  to  her,  bearing  a  huge  loaf  of  bread  in  his 
arms. 

"It's  for  you,"  said  he.  '*  1  got  it  all  myself 
And  I  picked  a  few  strawberries  for  you,  on  the 
way  to  school." 

"  Why  didn't  you  give  them  to  mother?"  asked  she 

"Oh,  I  did  give  her  half,"  said  he. 

"  But  why  did  not  you  give  her  all  ?  "  she  asked, 
knowing  well  the  reason,  yet  wanting  to  hear  ii 
BtilL 


16  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

He  only  looked  up,  however,  and  smiled.  Yet 
the  smile  answered  and  cheered  her,  and  again  she 
felt  humbled  and  reproved. 

*'0h!  I  do  wish  I  was  good!"  thought  she. 

She  finished  her  supper  in  silence,  and  then 
helped   her  mother  get  the  little  ones  off  to   bed. 

In  the  midst  of  their  labors,  Hatty  came  running 
in,  tired,  flushed,  and  out  of  breath. 

"Oh  dear  I"  cried  she,  "have  you  all  done  sup- 
per? It's  too  bad!  I  hate  to  eat  all  by  myself! 
I  should  think  somebody  might  have  waited  for 
me.  Where's  the  milk?  Oh!  here  it  is.  Where's 
mother?  Mother,  mother!  I  need  a  new  pair  of 
shoes.  There's  a  hole  in  the  side  of  one  of  mine, 
and  the  heels  are  all  worn  out,  so  that  little  stones 
get  in  and  half  kill  me." 

"You've  only  had  them  a  month,"  said  Kebecca, 
reproachfully. 

"Well,  what  of  that?"  retorted  Hatty. 

"Nothing;  only  if  we  are  all  going  to  have  a 
new  pair  of  shoes  every  month,  I  wonder  where 
the  money  is  to  come  from." 

"Who  said  you  were  all  to  have  a  new  pair?" 
asked  Hatty,  laughing,  and  pouring  down  milk  as 
fast  as  possible.  "If  I  went  creeping  along  like 
a  snail,  as  you  do,  maybe  my  shoes  would  last 
longer;  but  I'd  as  lief  die  as  go  crawling  about  in 
that  style.     How  cross  Miss  Wheeler  was  this  af 


COMFORTABLE    TROUBLES.  17 

temoon!  Well!  I  don't  care.  I  feel  as  well  as 
ever,  now  that  I've  had  my  supper;  and  I  had  the 
comfort  of  keeping  her  in,  at  any  rate.  And  now 
I'm  going  down  to  Mary  Johnson's." 

She  caught  up  her  bonnet,  and  was  hurrying 
away,   when  her  mother  detained  her. 

"Have  you  finished  those  stockings,  dear?"  she 
asked. 

"No,  mother,  not  quite;  I'll  finish  them  to-mor 
row.     I'm  going  to  Mary  Johnson's  now." 

"I'm  afraid  Arthur  won't  fare  very  well  in  youi 
hands,"  said  her  mother. 

Hatty  wavered  a  little  between  Mary  Johnson 
and  Arthur.  "  To-morrow  is  Saturday,"  said  she, 
"and  I  shall  have  time  to  see  to  all  his  things 
then."  And,  satisfied  with  her  mother's  half  con- 
sent, away  she  flew. 

"Lucy,  dear,  hadn't  you  better  go  too?"  asked 
her  mother. 

"I  thought  I  would  study  a  little  now,"  she 
answered. 

"Oh,  run  out  and  get  rested,  first;  you  have  had 
no  rest  to-day." 

"It  rests  me  to  study,"  said  Lucy. 

"Just  to  please  me !"  urged  her  mother. 

Lucy  took  down  her  bonnet,  and  stood  holding 
it  in  her  hand  a  moment  irresolutely;  then  slowly 
left   the   house,   and    turned    her   steps   towards   a 


18  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

neighboring  grove,  among  whose  shadows  she  was 
Boon  lost  to  her  mother's  anxious  eye. 

*'  She  has  not  gone  with  Hatty,  after  all,"  thought 
fihe.  Her  hopeful  heart  was  heavy  with  care  this 
night,  and  she  looked  down  with  a  troubled  face 
upon  the  baby  who  lay  half  asleep  in  her  arms. 
He  opened  his  eyes,  and  seemed  to  catch  the 
shadow  from  hers,  for  he  curled  up  his  lip  with  a 
pitiful,  grieved  expression,  very  touching  to  be- 
hold. She  reassured  him  with  a  smile,  and  began 
to  sing, 

"There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight." 

The  baby  lay  quiet,  and  soon  fell  asleep,  and  the 
heavy  heart  lay  quiet  too,  for  there  was  comfort 
for  it  in  that  good  old  hymn 


CHAPTER  11. 


TBOUBLE  BEARING  FRUIT. 


UCY  sauntered  listlessly  along,  and  at  last 
threw  herself  down  upon  the  ground,  at 
the  foot  of  a  tree.  It  was  a  lovely,  quiet 
evening;  the  crickets  hummed  cheerfully 
around  her,  and  the  fresh,  pure  air  was  as  full  of 
life  and  cheer  as  they. 

"I  wish  I  was  goodl"  said  she.  "I  wish  I  was 
a  Christian !  I  wish  I  could  help  being  fretful  and 
selfish.  Oh !  I  do  wish  I  could  be  a  Christian  1  But 
it's  no  use.  The  more  I  try  to  be  good,  the  worse 
1  am.  I  do  hate  so  to  sew  and  to  work;  and  1  do 
love  so  to  read  and  to  study  1  Mother  says  the 
children  are  growing  older;  but  so  am  I  growing 
older,  and  not  learning  anything,  hardly.  But  it  is 
wicked  to  fret  about  it,  I  know.  Oh!  I  do  wish  I 
was  a  Christian!" 

Silent  as  was  the  energetic  desire,  Lucy  started  as 


80  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

Bhe  heard  an  approaching  footstep,  as  if  detected  in 
some  guilty  act. 

It  was  her  father.  He  sat  down  by  her  side,  and 
for  a  little  time  both  were  silent.     At  last  he  said: 

"Your  mother  has  been  telling  me  that  you  are 
greatly  interrupted  and  hindered  in  your  studies. 
She  feels  troubled  about  it,  and  so  do  I.  But  we 
must  try  to  keep  up  our  courage,  and  hope  for 
brighter  days." 

"If  mother  could  spare  me,  I  should  like  to  go 
away  somewhere  to  school,"  returned  Lucy.     "There 

is  a  good  school  at  H ,  and  it  would  not  cost 

much." 

"Mother  would  spare  you,"  he  answered  kindly; 
"  but,  my  dear  child,  why  not  go  to  school  here  ? 
Why    leave    home?      Is    it    already    distasteful    to 

you?" 

*'No,  indeed,  father;  but  Miss  Wheeler  says  there's 
no  use  in  my  coming  to  her  any  longer.  She  says," 
she  added,  coloring,  "I've  learned  all  she  can  teach 
in  a  village  school.* 

"You  should  have  told  me  that,"  he  answered. 

"There  was  no  need,  at  first:  mother  thought  sht; 
oould  manage  it  so  as  to  give  me  time  to  study  a( 
home,  and  I  thought  it  was  going  to  be  so  nice 
But  she  has  to  interrupt  me.     She  cannot  help  it 
Ajid  so  I  don't  learn  anything  at  all." 

"Rebecca  will  soon  leave  school,"  said  her  father 


TROUBLE    BEARING    FRUIT.  21 

"Let  me  see!  She's  two  years  older  than  you,  isn't 
Bhe?" 

"She's  nearly  that;  but  you  know  she  got  behind- 
hand by  her  long  sickness.  That's  the  reason  I  know 
more  than  she  does." 

"That's  one  reason,"  he  answered,  smiling. 

"  Well,  father,  when  she  leaves  school,  if  you  and 

mother  could  spare  me  to  go  to  H ,  I  would  be 

very  industrious,  and  I  would  wear  very  simple 
clothes,  and  very  soon  I  could  keep  school  myself" 

"Dear  child,"  said  he,  "I  certainly  will  not  re- 
fuse to  consider  the  question,  at  least."  He  rose 
and  walked  slowly  homeward.  Lucy  sat  still,  with 
a  beating  heart.  She  was  full  of  that  hunger  and 
thirst  after  knowledge  that  would  not  be  appeased, 
and,  for  the  moment,  it  almost  consumed  her.  She 
did  not  see  the  big  drops  on  her  father's  brow,  as 
he  revolved  her  proposal  in  his  mind,  nor  hear  the 
sighs  that  had  forced  them  there. 

"  Mother,"  said  he,  as  he  entered  the  house,  "  Lucy 
says  she  has  learned  all  Miss  Wheeler  can  teach  her." 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  quietly,  "I  know  it.  Misa 
Wheeler  told  me  so  herself." 

"But  you  did  not  tell  me."  * 

"You  had  cares  enough  already." 

"Could  we  possibly  send  her  to  H ,  do  you 

think?" 

The  mother  cast  her  eye  about  the  room. 


22  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"Is  there  anything  we  could  seK?"  thought  she. 

**  You  can't  spare  us,"  said  the  old  chairs,  as  hel 
eye  fell  upon  them.  "There  are  too  few  of  ua 
now." 

"Where  will  you  eat  your  dinner;  how  will  you 
do  your  ironing,  if  I  go?"  asked  the  pine  table. 

"I  must  stay  and  rock  the  baby!"  cried  the 
cradle,  now  appealed  to.  "I've  rocked  all  your 
babies  for  you,  patiently;  yes,  I  rocked  you  when 
you  were  a  baby  yourself.  And  now,  would  you 
turn  me  away?" 

She  sighed  a  little;  then  her  patient  heart  took 
courage,  and  her  imagination  ran  into  her  bed- 
room, and  looked  in  all  her  drawers  to  see  what 
was  there. 

"Dear  me!"  it  said,  "what  is  there  worth  look- 
ing at  here?  Old,  patched  shirts;  baby-frocks  and 
aprons,  faded  and  worn;  that  collar  you've  had 
ever  since  the  flood;  nobody  would  take  the  gift 
of  them.  And,  for  pity's  sake,  what  would  you  do 
without  them?" 

"You  don't  think  of  any  way  in  which  it  could 
be  done?"  said  the  father,  at  last. 

"No,  not  just  yet.  But  perhaps  I  shall  in  time,' 
she  said,  determined  to  look  at  the  bright  side  ol 
the  case. 

"If  it  were  not  for  that  debt,  there'd  be  some- 
thing to  hope  for,"  said  he. 


TROUBLE    BEARING    FRUIT.  23 

"  Yes,  that  debt !  But  one  must  have  trouble.  II 
we  had  not  that,  we  should  have  something  else.* 

"  A  pleasant  view  of  life  1 "  he  said,  bitterly. 

"You  are  not  well  to-night,"  she  said. 

*'I  should  be  well  enough  if  I  could  see  that 
child  satisfied,"  he  returned. 

Unobserved  by  her  parents,  for  it  was  now  quite 
dark,  Lucy  had  entered  the  room,  and  heard  the 
last  few  sentences. 

"A  debt!"  thought  she.  **How  dreadful!  No 
wonder  father  looks  so  careworn,  and  works  so  hard! 
And  I  have  been  worrying  him  about  school!"  She 
crept  noiselessly  away  to  her  own  room,  until  her 
father  assembled  the  family  for  evening  worship. 
As  she  knelt  with  the  rest,  and  listened  to  his  prayer, 
she  understood  the  secret  care  and  sorrow  veiled 
amid  its  petitions.  As  she  bid  him  good-night,  she 
whispered, 

"Father,  I  think  I  won*t  go  away  to  school.  I 
can  get  a  good  deal  of  time  to  study  if  I  am  care- 
ful; and  it's  just  as  well." 

He  kissed  her  more  than  once,  not  deceived  by 
these  generous  words,  but  willing  to  gratify  her 
for  the  time  by  seeming  so. 

"Well,  we  will  let  it  rest  for  the  present,**  he 
said;  "and,  oh!  my  precious  child,  remember  it 
matters  little  how  wise  he  is  who  has  not  learned 
Christ!" 


24  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"  I  know  it  I  I  know  it ! "  she  cried  bitterly  tc 
herself.  She  lingered  near  him  after  the  other  chil- 
dren  had  retired. 

**I  do  not  mean  to  depreciate  human  wisdom," 
he  said;  "only  I  would  place  so  far  above  earthly, 
all  heavenly  good.** 

"I  do  not  remember  the  time  when  I  did  not 
place  goodness  first,"  she  answered  timidly. 

"And  isn't  it  time  this  feeling  should  bear  fruit?" 
he  asked  very  tenderly. 

*'  Oh,  father !  hasn't  it  borne  any  fruit  ?  **  she  asked, 
now  bursting  into  tears. 

"Do  not  misunderstand  me,  darling,"  he  said, 
"I  was  only  trying  to  lead  you  to  say  just  what 
you  have  said.  We  have  watched  you  too  long, 
and  with  too  much  solicitude,  not  to  perceive  that 
old  things  were  passing  away  and  all  things  be- 
coming new,  and  I  thought  you  would  feel  better 
to  open  your  heart  to  us." 

"Yes,  father,  I  wish  I  could.  But  it  was  only 
a  few  hours  ago,  when  mother  called  me  from  my 
books,  I  felt  irritated;  and  after  that,  I  said  to 
myself,  *  There's  no  use!  I  am  not  a  Christian! 
Christians  don't  feel  so!*" 

"I  wish  that  were  true,  my  dear  Lucy.  But 
it  is  not.  Christians  do  feel  so.  But  they  do  not 
tjiHow  themselves  in  sin.  They  watch  and  pray, 
And  struggle  against  it." 


TROUBLE    BEARING    FRUIT.  25 

"But  it  does  not  do  any  good  for  me  to  dc 
that,"  said  Lucy,  sadly.  "I  go  right  away  and 
do  wrong  the  moment  I  have  resolved  never  to 
yield  to  temptation  again.** 

"Then  go  right  back  to  your  Saviour  and  tell 
Him  all  about  it;  and  beg  Him  to  give  you  true 
and  hearty  sorrow  for  and  abhorrence  of  it." 

"I  have,  a  great  many  times;  but  it's  no  use." 

"And  yet  you  have  been  growing,  meanwhile, 
more  patient,  more  gentle,  every  day.  Your  mo- 
ther has  observed  it,  and  so  have  I.  You  may 
depend  upon  it,  God  never  hears  a  prayer,  however 
poor  and  imperfect,  without  answering  it." 

Lucy  felt  cheered  and  encouraged  by  this  assurance. 
She  had  long  been  groping  about  in  the  dark,  wrapped 
in  a  reserve  painful  to  both  her  parents  and  herself; 
and  now  the  ice  was  broken.  She  would  gladly  have 
opened  her  heart  more  fully,  but  this  was  needless. 
One  glance  had  sufficed  to  show  to  her  father  that 
the  struggle  against  sin  and  the  pursuit  after  God 
had  begun;  and  he  felt  that  he  could  safely  leave 
her  in  His  hands  who  giveth  the  victory  through  our 
Lord  Jesus  Christ.  He  made  her  kneel  once  more  by 
bis  side,  while,  in  a  few  solemn  words,  he  gave  him- 
self and  her  to  God,  to  be  His,  and  only  His,  forever, 
and  then  retired  for  the  night.  Lucy  returned  to  her 
room,  greatly  cheered  and  comforted.  Many  months 
ago  she  had  begun  to  hope  that  God  had  made  her  His 


26  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

child;  but  she  had  found  little  satisfaction  in  serving 
Him  so  long  as  she  felt  doubtful  as  to  her  acceptance 
with  Him.  The  tendency  to  despond,  to  which  in 
other  respects  she  was  prone,  assailed  her  here  dis- 
astrously. And  as  yet  she  lacked  that  clear,  distinct 
view  of  Christ  as  all  in  oEy  without  which,  even  if 
there  is  religious  life,  there  can  be  neither  peace  noi 
progress. 

"  Now  I  will  go  on,  with  God's  help,"  she  thought, 
and  from  that  hour  she  never  faltered. 


CHAPTEE  III. 


HOMELY  BISGIPLINB, 


N  Lucy's  infancy,  her  mother  used  often  tc 
say,  "This  child  will  make  something, 
either  good  or  bad ;  I  don't  know  which." 
For  even  when  a  very  little  girl,  she  gavQ 
evidence  of  a  proud,  sensitive,  and  moody  temper, 
hard  to  understand  and  hard  to  control.  Great 
strength  and  tenderness  of  the  affections  adorned 
the  wayward  childhood,  which  else  would  have  been 
all  root  and  branch,  and  no  flower.  Her  delight  was 
to  wander  by  herself  in  lonely  places;  to  sit  musing 
and  dreaming  away  the  hours  other  children  spend 
in  play;  and  to  venture  into  and  court  danger  and 
mystery.  No  stranger  could  have  met  the  child  in 
her  wanderings,  or  seen  her  sitting  thoughtfully  by 
the  fireside,  or  watched  the  grave  face  she  wore  at 
church  on  Sundays,  without  marking  and  holding 
her  in  long  remembrance.  Oftentimes,  when  the 
serious  face  was  lifted  to  her  mother's,  she  saw  in  it 


28  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

a  depth  and  intensity  that  made  her  tremble.  "  Will 
she  grow  up  a  good  child  ?  "  used  to  be  the  question ; 
but  as  years  advanced,  it  oftener  was,  "  Will  she  be 
a  happy  one?"  One  cannot  say  what  she  would 
have  become,  had  the  solitary  childhood  passed  into 
the  solitary  girlhood,  wherein  the  busy  mind  could 
have  revelled  on  and  consumed  itself. 

But  as  years  passed,  other  children  were  added  to 
the  family;  the  inner  life  of  this  sensitive  being  re- 
ceived many  a  shock,  and  the  delicate  taste  was 
wounded  at  a  thousand  points.  The  mother  had 
not  now  time  to  ask,  "How  shall  I  train  her?" 
Domestic  care  took  her  in  hand;  set  her  down  to 
hard,  homely  tasks ;  forced  her  from  the  unreal  into 
the  actual;  and  tampered  with  every  morbid  fancy 
and  poetic  longing.  For  many  years  she  brooded 
over  and  repined  at  this  lot,  and  strove  to  disentangle 
herself  from  the  cares  and  duties  in  which  she  was 
involved.  But  in  time  this  discipline  accomplished 
for  her  that  which  prosperity  never  has  wrought, 
and  the  morbid  soil  on  which  it  was  exercised  bore 
fruit  both  rich  and  rare.  The  sunshine  lies  upon  the 
mountain-top  all  day,  and  lingers  there  latest  and 
longest  at  eventide.  Yet  is  the  valley  green  and 
fertile,  and  the  mountain-top  barren  and  unfruitful. 

On  the  morning  after  the  conversation  with  hei 
father,  Lucy  rose  early,  and  opening  her  window, 
enjoyed  for  a  few  minutes  the  pure  fresh  air.     The 


HOMELY    DISCIPLINE.  29 

Btillness  of  this  early  hour,  broken  only  by  the  songs 
of  cheerful  birds,  went  down  into  her  very  heart 
She  would  gladly  have  dreamed  away  hours  in  con- 
templation of  the  scene  before  her,  but  life  called 
her  to  something  besides  dreams.  It  called  with  a 
shrill,  boyish  voice,  "Lucy I  Lucy  Grant!  Mother 
says,  won't  you  come  down  and  wash  my  face,  and 
Tom's  face,  and  all  our  faces  ?  " 

She  ran  down  and  performed  those  necessary  acts 
with  so  much  more  than  ordinary  gentleness  and 
patience,  that  the  children  were  quite  docile  under 
the  operation. 

"  I  wish  you'd  always  wash  me,"  said  Tom.  *'  Re- 
becca is  so  slow,  and  she  does  bear  on  sol  And 
Hatty  doesn't  half  wash  me,  she's  always  in  such  a 
hurry." 

"Shall  I  take  the  baby,  mother?**  she  asked 
pleasantly. 

"  You  may,  dear,  a  few  minutes,  and  I'll  see  about 
breakfast.  Baby's  getting  more  teeth,  I  think.  He 
was  very  restless  all  night." 

"  I  mean  to  have  him  to-night,  then,"  said  Lucy. 

*'  Oh  no,  that  won't  do.  I  can't  have  you  deprived 
of  sleep." 

Lucy  took  the  baby,  smoothed  down  his  little  rum- 
pled night-gown,  and  went  to  the  door-step,  where 
she  seated  herself  and  tried  to  read  from  a  book 
drawn  hastily  from   her  pocket.     The  baby  hailed 


30  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

the  appearance  of  the  book  with  a  cry  of  pleasure, 
and  made  a  sndden  descent  upon  it  with  a  speed 
that  well-nigh  threw  him  from  Lucy's  arms. 

Siie  held  her  book  at  arm's-length,  still  trying 
to  read,  till  baby,  tired  of  reaching  forth  his  hands 
in  pursuit  of  it,  began  to  cry.  Lucy  felt  irritated. 
*'Why  couldn't  you  let  me  have  a  little  peace?" 
she  said,  returning  the  book  to  her  pocket  and  be- 
ginning to  walk  up  and  down  with  the  child. 

It  was  a  warm,  damp  morning:  the  baby  was  a 
great,  heavy  fellow,  and  full  of  that  incessant  mo- 
tion young  people  of  his  age  see  fit  to  keep  up. 
Now  he  twisted  himself  this  way  and  now  that;  at 
this  moment  he  bent  backward,  and  she  saved  him 
from  a  fall  by  a  desperate  grasp  at  his  feet;  the 
next,  he  threw  himself  half  over  her  shoulder, 
climbing  over  her  face  as  if  its  features  were  made 
for  his  special  benefit  and  pleasure.  Lucy  felt  weary, 
and  out  of  sympathy  with  his  life  and  spirits,  and 
was  afraid,  besides  that,  she  had  been  very  impa- 
tient, if  not  angry,  about  her  book.  *'0h,  God  I 
help  me  to  be  patient!"  she  whispered;  and  again, 
and  again,  and  yet  again,  as  she  continued  hei 
walk,  she  repeated  the  words,  till  patience  came. 

At  that  moment,  Kebecca  came  out  to  look  foi 
them. 

"Give  him  to  me  now,"  said  she;  "your  arms 
must  ache,  I  am  sure.     Besides,  mother  wants  you.* 


HOMELY    DISCIPLINE.  31 

Lucy  went  in,  and  found  breakfast  nearly  ready 

"Hatty  has  not  come  down,  though  I've  called 
her  twice,"  said  her  mother.  "Just  run  up  and 
tell  her  to  come  directly,  will  you,  dear?** 

Lucy  went,  and  found  Hatty  standing  in  her  night- 
dress before  the  little  glass,  arranging  her  hair. 

"Mother  says  she  has  called  you  twice,  Hatty, 
said  she. 

"Well,  I  can't  help  it.  Fm  hurrying  as  fast  as 
I  can.     What  does  she  want,  do  you  know?" 

"Breakfast  is  nearly  ready,  and  the  table  isn't  set." 

"Oh,  is  that  all?  Well,  you  set  it  for  me  just  this 
once.     I'll  do  as  much  for  you  some  time." 

She  curled  and  recurled  her  hair  at  her  leisure, 
until  she  was  startled  by  her  mother's  voice. 

"  Hatty,  do  you  know  Lucy  is  setting  the  table  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"Yes,  mother,  she  said  she  would  just  this  once. 
Setting  a  table  is  no  great  hardship,  is  it?"  she 
asked,  fancying  her  mother  looked  displeased. 

"  No,  dear,  that  in  itself  is  no  hardship.  But  all 
our  happiness  depends  on  regularity  and  method, 
and  I  wish  very  much  you  would  attend  to  your 
own  share  of  the  work,  and  not  so  often  throw  it 
off  on  Lucy." 

"Well,  I  will  next  time,  mother,"  said  Hatty 
''and  I'll  hurry  down  now." 

Not  until  breakfast  was  on  the  table,  however 


32  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

did  slie  make  her  appearance,  and  then  she  came 
in,  looking  so  fresh,  so  smiling,  so  pretty,  that  not 
one  of  the  family  felt  like  frowning  on  her. 

"  We  must  take  her  as  we  find  her,"  thought  hen 
mother;  and  found  her  very  beautiful  and  charming. 

This  day,  being  Saturday,  was  as  full  of  care  and 
labor  as  it  could  hold.  The  baby  would  have  one 
at  least  devoted  solely  to  his  pleasure,  and  would 
not  have  thought  the  united  attentions  of  the  whole 
family  out  of  place,  under  the  circumstances.  The 
children  had  a  half  holiday,  and  were  playing  about 
the  house  with  all  conceivable  clamor;  there  were 
Sunday  garments  to  be  got  in  order;  there  was 
the  usual  Saturday  baking:  Lucy  had  not  one  mo- 
ment of  leisure.  Never  in  her  life  had  she  so  longed 
for  a  few  hours  for  reflection.  Once  or  twice,  in  the 
course  of  the  day,  she  caught  a  kind  sympathizing 
glance  from  her  father's  eye;  more  than  once  or 
twice  a  loving  word,  warm  from  her  mother's  heart, 
had  put  life  into  her  own.  So  the  day  wore  on,  as 
days  will,  till  it  had  worn  itself  into  twilight,  and 
its  heat  and  labor  were  past  and  gone.  Her  father 
Htood  in  the  open  door,  and  she  went  to  him. 

**This  has  been  a  busy  day,"  he  said. 

"Very  busy,"  she  answered.     *'And,  father — ** 

"Well,  dear." 

"  How  can  I  be  a  Christian  when  there  is  so  much 
to  do?** 


HOMELY    DISCIPLINE.  33 

He  did  not  answer  her  for  a  moment,  but  Beemed 
looking  for  something  in  the  little  garden  before 
them.     Presently  he  said: 

"Do  you  see  that  vine  climbing  up  there  by  the 
wall  ?  It  lays  hold  of  the  stones  and  sticks  for  sup. 
port,  and  makes  them  help  it.  Just  so  you  must 
make  your  daily  tasks  and  cares  help  you.  Take 
fast  hold  of  them  and  climb  up  by  their  means." 

"That  would  be  very  hard." 

"Yes,  I  know  it.  But  it  is  the  only  way.  And 
God  will  help  you." 

"  Instead  of  being  a  help,  they  have  been  a  hin- 
drance all  day,"  said  Lucy. 

"That  is  owing  to  your  not  looking  at  them  in 
their  true  light.  You  may  be  sure  of  one  thing: 
God  Himself  has  placed  you  in  your  present  cir- 
cumstances, and  it  is  He  who  appoints  for  you  your 
daily  task.  Now,  is  it  possible  to  conceive  that  a 
Being  of  so  much  wisdom  and  goodness  would  place 
you  amid  duties  whose  tendency  is  to  draw  you 
away  from,  rather  than  towards.  Himself?" 

Lucy  sighed;  she  felt  a  little  puzzled,  and  did 
not  quite  understand  what  her  father  was  saying. 

"Keflect  upon  it  as  you  have  leisure,"  he  said, 
"and  pray  over  it,  and  by  degrees  you  will  under 
Btand  it." 

He  bade  her  good-night,  and  she  went  up  to  her 
own   little   room.     Very   little   indeed  it   was,   and 


H  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

poorly  furnished;  yet  within  its  friendly  seclusion 
she  bad  sought  and  found  God.  And  as  she  no^v 
kn^lt  and  communed  with  Him,  what  mattered  il 
wf'.ether  the  walls  that  enclosed  that  blessed  spot 
w^'.re  low  and  v^hitpwashed,  or  high  and  lofty  and 
Rdorned  ViJith  tapeBtries? 


CHAPTER  IV. 


ARTHUR, 


OME  months  later,  as  Lucy  one  afternoon 
entered  her  room,  she  was  startled  to 
hear  the  sound  of  suppressed,  but  very 
bitter  weeping.  She  stopped  and  listened : 
it  came  from  Arthur's  room,  which  adjoined  her  own. 
She  went  and  knocked  gently  at  the  door,  but  he 
made  no  answer,  only  the  sound  of  the  weeping 
ceased,  and  there  was  a  great  silence.  Lucy  lingered, 
perplexed  and  anxious,  about  the  door.  "  It  must 
be  something  very  bad  indeed  to  make  him  cry  ! " 
thought  she.  "  Boys  do  not  cry  at  every  little  thing, 
as  girls  do !  '* 

She   went   down,    hoping   to   learn   the   cause   of 
Arthur's  grief  without  betraying  him. 

*'Do  you  know  where  Arthur  is?"  she  inquired 
of  Hatty. 

"I  heard  him  singing  in  his  room  just  now,"  re- 
turned Hatty. 


56  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"Singing!  yes,  a  sad  kind  of  singing!  Even 
crying  sounds  cheerful  to  Hatty,  she  is  always  ic 
such  good  spirits  herself,"  thought  Lucy. 

"And  speaking  of  Arthur  reminds  me  that  he 
hasn't  a  whole  stocking  to  his  name,  and  it's  getting 
cold  for  bare  feet  I  declare,  I  forgot  all  about 
them." 

*'  I  am  glad  you  don't  have  the  care  of  my  things," 
said  Rebecca. 

"And  I  am  glad  you  haven't  the  care  of  mine," 
retorted  Hatty.  "They  would  never  be  done,  I'm 
sure.  Now  you  shall  see  how  soon  I'll  have  those 
stockings  done.  While  you  are  saying  *Jack  Rob- 
inson,' I'll  darn  every  hole  in  them." 

"I  a'n't  going  to  say  *Jack  Robinson,'"  said 
Rebecca.  "And  it  isn't  my  fault  if  I  am  slow.  I 
was  made  so." 

"Then  I'd  go  back  and  be  made  faster,*'  said 
Hatty. 

Rebecca  was  silent.  Hatty's  tone  had  been  un- 
kind. 

"  Rebecca  is  slow  to  take  offence,"  said  Lucy.  "  I 
wish  I  had  half  her  patience." 

Rebecca  looked  up  gratefully  at  Lucy,  and  Hatty 
felt  reproached  by  the  look. 

"Dear  me!"  she  cried;  "I'm  always  hurting 
somebody's  feelings;  and  yet  there's  nobody  in  the 
world   whom    I   w^ould    hurt    on    purpose.     Why,   J 


ARTHUR.  87 

wouldn't  kill  a  fly,  if  I  could  help  it.  Come,  havo 
we  made  up?"  she  cried,  dropping  from  her  lap 
stockings,  balls  of  yarn,  thimble  and  scissors,  and 
kneeling  down  before  Rebecca. 

Who  would  resist  the  beautiful  young  face  as  it 
now  looked  up,  half  penitent,  half  saucy,  into  Re- 
becca's? Not  that  good,  patient  sister,  at  least. 
They  kissed  each  other,  and  were  friends  again; 
and  Hatty  forgot  in  two  minutes  that  she  had  of- 
fended, repented,  and  been  forgiven.  She  resumed 
her  work,  and  admired  the  fair  ringlets  that,  falling 
around  her  shoulders  as  she  leaned  over  her  stock- 
ings, lay  upon  her  lap,  caught  in  her  scissors,  and 
played  all  manner  of  pretty  caprices. 

"Mary  Johnson  says  my  hair  is  lovely,"  said 
she. 

**Yes,  it  is,"  said  Rebecca. 

"But  it  isn't  equal  to  Lucy's,"  pursued  Hatty. 
"Nobody  has  such  beautiful  hair  as  she,  unless 
it  is  the  angels." 

"  Angels ! "  said  Rebecca.  "  Do  angels  have  hair  ? 
Are  not  you  thinking  of    mermaids  ?  " 

Down  again  fell  Hatty's  work,  her  balls,  and  her 
scissors. 

"  Mermaids !  "  cried  she,  convulsed  with  laughter. 
"  Oh !  Becky,  you'll  kill  me  yet ! " 

Both  Lucy  and  Rebecca  laughed  too,  for  Hatty's 
mirth  was  good-humored  this  time,  and  infectioufl 


88  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"These  poor  stockings  will  never  be  done  at 
this  rate,"  said  Lucy  at  last.  "Come,  let  me  do 
them." 

She  soon  finished  them,  and  this  done,  ventured 
again  to  Arthur's  door. 

"Arthur,"  she  cried  from  the  outside,  '*here  are 
your  stockings." 

He  opened  the  door  a  little  way,  reaching  forth 
his  hand  to  take  them. 

"  Mayn't  I  come  in  ?  "  said  she. 

He  allowed  her  to  enter,  and  she  seated  herself, 
with  her  usual  tact,  where  she  could  not  see  his  face, 
and  made  some  cheerful  remark  about  his  books, 
which,  few  as  they  were,  had  been  arranged  neatly 
on  shelves  of  his  own  manufacture.  He  made  no 
answer. 

At  last  he  asked  abruptly,  "Lucy,  how  soon  do 
boys  get  old  enough  to  earn  money?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered.  "  Some  boys  begin 
very  soon." 

"As  young  as  I  am?" 

"Oh  dear,  no;  I  guess  not.  Why,  do  you  want 
money  ?  " 

"Not  for  myself" 

He  was  silent  again.  Lucy  knew  him  too  well 
to  press  him  to  speak,  so  she  was  silent  too. 

"Don't  they  take  boys  of  my  age  into  stores?' 
he  asked  at  last. 


ARTHUR  31 

"  Yes,  I  believe  they  do,  but  they  don't  pay  much 
It  -would  take  all  you  could  earn,  and  more,  too, 
for  your  board  and  clothes." 

*'How  do  you  know?     Are  you  sure?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  sure.  I  heard  Mr.  Johnson  eay  so 
He  thought  of  sending  Josiah  to  New  York  or  some- 
where, and  he  made  inquiries  about  it.  He  told 
father  so  one  day." 

"I  wish  I  was  out  of  the  way,  at  any  rate,"  he 
said,  gloomily. 

"  Out  of  the  way  I  Why,  Arthur !  what  can  you 
mean  ?  " 

"Nothing;  only  I  wish  I  was  out  of  the  way." 

"I  used  to  wish  so  once,"  said  Lucy;  "but  it 
wasn't  right.  We  are  just  where  God  has  put  us, 
and  it  is  a  pleasant  place,  after  all." 

"Do  you  call  it  pleasant  to  be  as  poor  as  we 
are?" 

"  God  has  made  us  poor,"  she  answered,  with  a 
tone  that  said,  "And  so  I  call  it  pleasant." 

"Yes,"  said  Arthur,  seriously,  "it  is  right,  I  know, 
but  it's  very  hard.  You  see,  I  never  knew  till  to- 
day— though  I  suppose  you've  known  it  this  long 
time — that  father  is  in  debt;  and  thinking  about  it 
has  made  me  wish  I  could  do  something  for  him 
instead  of  idling  round  here." 

"  I'm  sorry  you've  found  that  out,"  said  Lucy. 
*I  have  only  known   it  myself  a  few  months,  but 


40  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

somehow  it  seems  as  if  I  had  grown  old  fast 
since   then." 

"  It  has  made  me  feel  just  so,"  cried  Arthur.  *'  I 
am  going  to  leave  school  if  father  will  let  me,  and 
help  him,  and  I've  made  up  my  mind  not  to  go  U\ 
college." 

"  Not  go  to  college ! "  cried  Lucy  in  dismay.  "  Oh ! 
Arthur,  father  has  always  said  you  should  go,  and 
you've  been  talking  of  it  ever  since  you  were  a  little 
bit  of  a  boy." 

"  Then  there's  the  less  need  of  my  talking  about 
it  now." 

"Father  will  be  sorry  to  know  this,"  said  Lucy. 
"All  that  keeps  him  up  is  his  love  for  us,  and  if 
he  knows  we  are  thwarted  in  any  of  our  great 
wishes,  it  wears  upon  him  sadly." 

''Well,  I've  made  up  my  mind  what  my  duty 
is,"  replied  Arthur.  "I  sha'n't  go  to  college.  I 
shall  stay  and  help  father." 

"You  sJiaE  go!"  cried  Lucy.  "I  am  strong  and 
Well.  I  am  older  than  you;  I  can  earn  money  some- 
how, and  I  will." 

Arthur  smiled,  and  shook  his  head. 

"At  any  rate,  don't  say  anything  yet  to  father. 
I  do  not  believe  it  is  a  very  large  debt;  and  we're 
all  growing  older;  and  before  long  you'll  see  me 
teaching  school,  and  money  will  be  as  plenty  as 
blackberries." 


ARTHUR.  41 

Half  believing  herself,  and  having  quite  cheered 
him,  Lucy  was  about  leaving  the  room. 

"I  must  go  down  and  see  about  tea  now,"  sh« 
said. 

"There's  always  something  for  you  to  see  about, 
he  answered,  half  detaining  her.     "You  might  allow 
yourself  time  to  breathe,  I  should  think." 

An  impatient,  ^-estless  feeling  gnawed  at  Lucy's 
heart,  as  she  detached  herself  from  his  grasp,  and 
went  down. 

It  said,  "  Yes,  you've  always  something  to  see 
about  except  your  own  business.      It  is  too  bad ! " 

But  something  else  exclaimed,  "Your  own  busi- 
ness !     Have  you  really  any  of  your  own  ?  " 

"No;  I  am  not  my  own!"  she  answered,  "and 
1  am  glad  that  I  am  not.  I  am  glad  that  there 
is  a  God,  and  that  I  am  His  child,  and  that  I 
haven't  anything  to  do  but  just  to  obey  Him." 

The  restless  feeling  vanished  for  the  time,  and  she 
went  cheerfully  about  her  work,  "doing  it  as  unto 
God." 

Her  father,  who  had  come  in  tired,  and  not  in 
clined  to  talk,  sat  watching  her. 

At  length  he  said,  "What  are  you  thinking  of 
now,  darling?" 

She  stopped  and  smiled,  as  she  answered,  "  Onlj? 
of  some  lines  that  keep  running  in  my  head  all  the 
time,  about 


42  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"Serving  with  careful  Martha's  hands 
And  loving  Mary's  heart." 

He  was  touched  by  the  tone  in  which  she  spokoj 
for  he  knew  how  distasteful  all  domestic  labor  was 
to  her. 

"It  is  homely  discipline,"  thought  he,  "but  its 
results  are  just  as  beautiful." 

He  closed  his  eyes,  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 
They  all  fancied  him  asleep,  but  his  thoughts  were 
very  busy ;  and  when  the  children  began  to  whisper 
among  themselves,  "Father's  asleep;  don't  let  us 
make  a  noise,"  he  astonished  them  by  rising  and 
going  out  to  the  favorite  seat  on  the  door-step. 

It  was  now  Lucy's  turn  to  watch  him,  and  after 
a  while  she  ventured  to  go  out  and  whisper,  "  Is  any- 
thing the  matter,  father?" 

**  No,  dear,  no,"  he  answered.  "  I  was  only  think- 
ing how  much  discipline  it  takes  to  make  us  meet 
for  God's  kingdom,  and  that  you  are  having  your 
share!'* 

She  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  "  Why,  father ! 
nothing  very  bad  happens  to  me  1  Nothing  special, 
I'm  sure ! "  She  felt  ashamed  to  have  her  petty 
trials  called  "discipline." 

"Your  trials,  such  as  they  are,"  he  answered, 
"  sufifice  as  such,  just  as  truly  as  great  afflictions  and 
misfortunes  could.  God  can  sanctify  the  small  as 
well  as  the  great  events  of  our  lives." 


ARTHUR.  43 

"But,  father,  I  am  not  unhappy  or  discontented 
I  enjoy  a  great  deaV*  She  was  thinking  of  her  lit* 
tie  room  upstairs,  and  of  the  true  peace  she  had 
BO  often  found  there. 

"  But  you  could  not  always  say  that,"  he  answered. 
"This  is  the  fruit  of  years  of  gentle  but  constant 
chastening." 

Lucy  was  silent.  She  felt  herself  almost  blush 
with  shame. 

"  I  understand  you,  Lucy,"  he  went  on.  *'  I  know 
what  it  is  to  have  one's  tastes  thwarted  and  put 
aside  as  yours  have  been.  I  know  what  it  is  to 
long  for  solitude,  and  be  forced  into  a  crowd;  to 
thirst  for  knowledge,  and  to  be  consumed  by  that 
thirst." 

He  had  touched  the  soft  spots  now.  Sigh  after 
sigh,  suppressed,  and  yet  very  heavy,  attested  it,  as 
Lucy  stood  behind  and  out  of  his  sight. 

"  Oh,  father,"  she  said  at  last,  "  don't  let  us  think 
of  it  I " 

"  Nay,  let  us  rather  walk  boldly  up  to  the  truth, 
and  look  it  in  the  face,"  he  answered.  "You  will 
find  your  burden  easier  to  bear  when  you  have 
learned  exactly  what  it  is,  who  has  appointed  it,  and 
who  is  to  help  carry  it.  I  shall  have  to  tell  you,  1 
cannot  send  you  away  to  school.  I  see  no  reason  to 
think  I  ever  can." 

"Oh,  I  had  given  that  all  up  long  agoP  cried 


44  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

Lucy.  "  And  I  never  even  think  of  it  now,  except- 
lug  when — " 

She  stopped;  for  at  that  moment  she  remembered 
her  late  interview  with  Arthur,  and  her  promise  that 
she  should  teach  school,  and  so  help  him  through 
college. 

*'  Well,  I  don  t  feel  anxious  about  it,  at  all  events,' 
she  said. 

"It  is  hard  to  be  obliged  to  deny  you,  my  deai 
child,  a  wish  so  rational.  I  little  thought,  when  you 
were  a  mere  baby  on  my  knee,  and  I  fostered  in  you 
the  desire  you  even  then  showed  for  knowledge,  that 
the  time  would  come  when  I  should  have  to  ex- 
tinguish it." 

"You  can't  extinguish  it,"  said  Lucy.  "But  you 
can  help  me  to  be  cheerful  and  even  happy;  and 
that  is  better.  Oh,  father !  I  feel  so  grateful  to  you 
for  teaching  me  to  love  God ! " 

"  I  trust  He  has  taught  you  that  Himself,"  he 
answered.  "  And  with  it,  I  am  sure  He  will  give 
you  everything  else  you  need.  I  rejoice  that  I  can 
trust  Him  for  that  ?     It  is  my  only  comfort  I " 


CHAPTER  V. 


BABY  NUMBER  TWO. 


S  time  passed,  Lucy's  cares  and  labors  in- 
creased.  Just  as  the  baby  had  got  upon 
his  feet,  and  was  making  himself  the  ter- 
ror of  the  household,  by  pulling  burning 
sticks  of  wood  from  the  fire,  for  toys,  and  climbing 
up  the  sides  of  the  well  to  throw  therein  whatever 
else  he  could  lay  his  hands  on,  there  came  another 
young  gentleman  upon  the  stage. 

"Well,  sir!"  cried  Hatty,  as  she  came  with  hei 
hair  half-fixed  to  greet  the  new-comer;  "you're  a 
fine  young  man,  a^h't  you?  Don't  you  know  we 
needed  a  great  many  things  more  than  we  needed 


you 


?" 


She  kissed  him,  as  she  spoke,  with  her  cold  face, 
and  he  began  to  cry. 

"What  are  you  crying  for?"  she  continued.  "Do 
you  suppose  we've  got  anything  to  give  you?  No, 
indeed!  you've  come  to  a  poor  place,  sir!** 


i6  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"He  shall  have  a  warm  welcome,  at  any  rate,' 
Baid  Lucy,  taking  him  tenderly  in  her  arms.  Hel 
mother  looked  up,  with  a  quick,  grateful  smile. 

"Dear  child,"  she  whispered,  "can  you  really 
give  him  that?" 

**Ye8,  indeed,  mother,  and  more  too."  She  went 
with  the  child  to  the  kitchen  fire,  and  let  the  little 
ones  take  a  peep  at  the  small  pink  face.  On  seeing 
his  place  thus  usurped  by  Baby  Number  Two,  Baby 
Number  One  relieved  his  feelings  by  a  fearful  shout 
of  displeasure,  and  began  pulling  at  Lucy's  dress, 
still  farther  to  attract  her  attention. 

"Do  take  him  away,  somebody,"  said  Lucy, 
trembling  for  her  new  charge. 

"  He  won't  let  me,  I  know,"  said  Rebecca.  "  You 
have  weaned  him  from  us  all  by  taking  so  much 
care  of  him." 

This  was  true.  Of  late,  Lucy  had  been  mother  to 
him  as  well  as  sister. 

"  Well,  then,  you  must  dress  the  baby,"  said  Lucy, 
offering  to  relinquish  her  low  seat  by  the  fire. 

Rebecca  shrank  back  in  terror. 

"Oh  I  couldn't  dress  it,"  said  she;  "I  never  did 
such  a  thing  in  my  life." 

"I  know  that,"  returned  Lucy,  "but  somebody 
must  do  it,  and  if  you  can't  amuse  Horace,  I  don't 
Bee  what  I  shall  do.  Arthur  dear,  couldn't  you  take 
Horace  out  on  your  sled  awhile?" 


BABY   NUMBER    TWO.  4'l 

"Yes^  indeed,  if  it  isn't  too  cold." 

"If  he  is  wrapped  up  nicely,  I  don't  believe  il 
will  hurt  him,"  said  Lucy.  "  Come,  Hatty,  you  see 
to  it,  will  you  ?  " 

Hatty  proceeded  to  the  task  with  her  usual  pre- 
cipitation, and  in  a  few  minutes  off  they  went. 

Lucy  now  gently  removed  the  blanket  from  the 
new  baby,  and  prepared  to  array  him  in  the  little 
worn  garments  that  had  already  done  so  much  ser- 
vice. But  at  this  moment  Arthur  rushed  in  with 
Horace  in  his  arms,  screaming  as  only  Horace 
could. 

"He  fell  right  off  the  sled  the  moment  I  began 
to  pull,"  said  Arthur. 

"Why,  Hatty!  did  you  suppose  such  a  child 
would  do  anything  else  ?  "  said  Lucy.  "  You  should 
have  fastened  him  on  somehow." 

"  I  told  him  to  hold  on  tight,"  said  Hatty.  "  The 
fact  is,  seeing  him  by  the  side  of  the  new  baby  made 
him  seem  like  such  a  big  boy,  that  1  forgot  he  waa 
so  young." 

"  You  might  put  him  in  a  large  basket,"  said  Ar- 
thur, "and  tie  the  basket  on." 

"Sure  enough!"  cried  Hatty,  who  was  now  quite 
in  her  element.  The  little  boys  stood  around  and 
admired,  while  Hatty  arranged  Horace  nicely  in  the 
basket,  out  of  which  his  head  peeped  like  that  of  a 
bird  from  its  nest.     The  little  face  was  covered  witii 


48  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

Bmiles  and  tears;  the  little  hands  held  fast  to  the 
sides  of  the  basket;  the  little  air  was  one  a  small 
king  might  have  put  on. 

''Let  mother  see  him,"  said  Lucy,  looking  with 
delight  at  the  happy  result  of  Arthur's  suggestion. 
The  children  lifted  the  basket,  and  bore  it  in  triumph 
to  their  mother,  who  from  her  bed  in  the  adjoining 
room  had  watched  the  little  group,  longing  to  be 
among  them. 

*'l  great  boy  now;  not  baby  now,"  said  Horace 
to  his  mother,  peering  over  the  top  of  the  basket, 
and  pointing  with  one  little  white  finger  to  the  in- 
fant  in  Lucy's  lap.  He  went  ofi*,  well  satisfied  with 
himself  and  his  new-found  dignity,  and  the  younger 
children  went  too.  Lucy  had  now  quiet  and  leisure 
for  the  baby. 

Kebecca  and  Hatty  stood  by,  and  handed  pins, 
and  aired  tiny  clothes,  and  gave  advice,  but  the 
difficulties  of  the  task  were  all  Lucy's.  She  grew 
anxious  and  heated,  as  she  pursued  it  amid  the  cries 
of  the  child. 

"I'm  afraid  it  makes  you  fairly  ache  to  see  ho\\ 
awkward  I  am,"  she  called  out  to  her  mother. 

But  the  weary  mother  had  fallen  into  placid 
sleep. 

"That's  nice,"  said  Lucy;  "I  was  afraid  I  skould 
worry  her.  Well,  girls !  We  get  along  pretty  well 
as   nurses,   don't   we?"    She   looked  with  pleasure 


BABY   NUMBER    TWO.  49 

on  the  little  creature  that  now  lay,  with  closed  eyes, 
upon  her  lap. 

"He's  a  noble  fellow,"  said  she. 

"  Yes,  now  he's  dressed,  he  looks  like  folks,"  said 
Rebecca;  an  announcement  hailed  by  Hatty  with 
as  hearty  laughter  as  she  dared  venture  under  the 
circumstances. 

Their  father  now  came  gently  from  their  mo- 
ther's room,  closing  the  door  behind  him. 

"Mother  is  sleeping  now,"  he  said.  "On  the 
whole,  I  think  we  make  pretty  good  nurses.  I 
never  knew  her  sleep  so  soon,  before." 

Lucy  remembered,  with  a  pang,  that  she  had 
been  very  ungracious  on  the  advent  of  Horace; 
and  felt  thankful  that  she  could  make  some  atone- 
ment for  it  by  present  devotion. 

"A  nurse  would  have  been  a  great  expense," 
said  she,  "  and  we  shall  get  along  nicely,  I  know." 

*'  I  wish  this  fellow  would  open  his  eyes,  and  let 
us  see  what  color  they  are,"  said  Hatty. 

"We  mustn't  expect  too  much  from  him,"  re- 
plied Lucy,  who  already  felt  a  sort  of  maternal 
pride  in  him.  "But  I  must  make  some  gruel  foi 
mother  now,  so  who'll  take  him?" 

"Oh,  let  me  make  mother's  gruel,"  said  Rebecca, 
quite  briskly  for  her. 

"Let  me  take  the  baby;  do!"  said  Hatty.  "I 
liaven't  liad  him  yet." 


50  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

Lucy  relinquished  her  charge,  and  went  out  U 
look  for  the  children.     She  came  back  immediately. 

"I  don't  see  anything  of  them,"  said  she.  '*! 
wish  I  had  charged  Arthur  not  to  go  far.  Father, 
could  you  go  up  the  road,  and  see  if  they're 
coming  ?  " 

"I  would,  dear,  but  there  are  the  cattle  to  fod- 
der. It  ought  to  have  been  done  long  ago.  I 
wouldn't  worry  about  those  boys.  They're  safe 
enough,  FU  warrant." 

He  looked  tired  and  abstracted.  He  had  been  up 
all  night,  and  many  painful  thoughts  had  stirred 
in  his  heart.  For  this  was  the  tenth  child,  and 
he  had  hardly  the  wherewithal  for  the  nine.  He 
went  hastily  out,  and  Lucy  stood  a  moment,  look- 
ing after  him.  She  knew  pretty  well  what  troubled 
him,  and  longed  to  take  that  weight  off  his  mind. 

"It  seems  strange,"  thought  she,  "that  just  Ar- 
thur and  I  should  have  found  out  about  that 
dreadful  debt.  I  don't  believe  any  of  the  others 
would  have  cared  as  we  do.  Rebecca  never  woriies 
about  anything;  and  Hatty  can't  realize  that  there 
is  any  occasion  to  'borrow  trouble,'  as  she  always 
calls  it.  But  Arthur !  he  doesn't  seem  like  the  same 
boy.  Sometimes  I  think  he  doesn't  eat  half  he 
wants,  so  as  to  save.  But  there'd  be  no  use  in 
asking  him."  She  took  down  her  shawl  and  hood, 
and  went  out  to  look  for  him. 


BABY    NUMBER    TWO.  6^ 

^^ Now  shall  you  find  any  time  to  study?"  asked 
something  within,  as  her  thoughts  went  back  to  the 
baby. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  a  little  sadly.  "  But 
it's  no  matter  if  I  don't."  A  few  great  tears  gathered 
in  her  eyes,  saying  it  was  a  deal  of  matter;  and  she 
felt  like  throwing  herself  right  down  there  in  the 
snow  to  cry.  But  that  would  never  do!  She  walked 
on  quickly;  the  cool  morning  air  invigorated  and 
cheered  her. 

"  We  shall  get  along  somehow,"  she  said — and 
then  she  smiled,  as  she  remembered  hearing  of 
somebody  who  had  said  he  was  afraid  he  never 
should  '•''get  through^''  being  asked  if  he  ever  heard 
of  any  one's  "sticking  by  the  way!"  "Yes,  we 
shall  get  along;  Rebecca  seems  to  brighten  up, 
lately;  and  Hatty  grows  older  every  day.  To  be 
sure,  she's  not  to  be  depended  upon.  I  hope  she 
won't  jump  up  while  I'm  gone  and  let  the  baby 
fall  off  her  lap  as  she  does  her  work  and  books." 

The  fear  of  this  not  at  all  unlikely  contingency 
made  her  quicken  her  steps;  and  she  hastened  on, 
looking  anxiously  up  the  road,  till  a  sudden  turn 
brought  the  party  full  into  view.  They  were  still 
at  a  distance,  but  she  saw  in  a  moment  that  some- 
thing was  the  matter.  Several  men  occupied  the 
middle  of  the  road;  they  were  lifting  something; 
at  first  she  thought  it  was  Horace  and   his  basket* 


52  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

but   as   she  flew  panting  on,   she  saw  that  it  was 
Arthur. 

As  she  came  forward,  Horace  stretched  forth  his 
arms,  and  the  other  children  all  broke  forth  to 
gether  in  incoherent  details.  ''Arthur,"  and  "a 
wicked  naughty  man,"  and  "frightened  to  death,*' 
was  all  she  could  catch  in  the  confusion,  till  she 
came  up  with  the  men  in  whose  arms  Arthur  now 
lay,  pale  and  quite  senseless. 

"Been  run  over,"  said  one  of  them,  in  answer  to 
the  question  of  her  terrified  face. 

**  Is  he  hurt  much  ? "  she  forced  herself  to  ask. 

"  Don'  no,"  said  the  man.  *'  Maybe  he  a'n't.  He's 
kind  o'  stunded  now.  We'll  have  a  hand-sled  here 
in  a  minute,  and  fetch  him  home.  There'll  be  the 
doctor  along,  too." 

Lucy  took  Horace  from  his  basket,  wherein  he 
had  not  ceased  to  scream  and  kick  ever  since  the 
accident,  and  turned  homeward.  She  had  presence 
of  mind  enough  left  in  this  great  terror  to  know 
that  her  mother  must  not  be  alarmed. 

"  Stay  with  him,  John,"  she  said  to  the  eldest 
boy,  and  turned  away.  The  other  children  fol- 
lowed, crying,  after  her.  She  never  knew  how  she 
got  home  with  that  heavy  boy  in  her  arms,  but  it 
Beemed  as  if  the  winds  took  her  up  and  carried  hei 
there.  She  opened  the  door  and  stepped  softly  in. 
On  one  side  was  the  great  kitchen;  on  the  other 


BABY   NUMBER    TWO.  52 

fche  best  room,  used  only  on  special  occasions,  no\^ 
shut  up,  dark  and  cold.  She  opened  the  shutters, 
and  then  stepped  back  into  the  kitchen. 

*'Is  mother  asleep  still?"  she  asked. 

*'No;  she's  awake,  and  has  got  the  baby,*'  said 
Hatty. 

"Come  out  here,  both  of  you,"  she  whispered, 
retiring  into  the  entry.  "Rebecca,  will  you  help 
me  bring  down  Arthur's  bed  ? "  she  said.  "  And, 
Hatty,  you  make  a  fire  in  the  north  room.  And, 
Tom,  you'll  stay  and  watch  mother;  that's  a  good 
boy — and  don't  tell  her  anything  has  happened." 

There  was  authority  in  the  trembling  voice  and 
in  the  pale  young  face.  Mechanically  they  all 
obeyed  her.  "Oh,  what  is  the  matter?"  cried 
Hatty  as  they  hurried  lightly  up  the  stairs  to- 
gether. 

"Something  has  happened  to  Arthur;  I  don't  know 
what  exactly;  but  I'm  sure  he's  hurt  a  good  deal; 
and  we  must  get  a  bed  ready  for  him,  where  we 
can  take  care  of  him  without  worrying  mother.  She 
would  hear  every  sound  overhead." 

They  had  arranged  the  bed  on  the  floor,  near  the 
fire  Rebecca  had  speedily  kindled,  when  Arthur  was 
brought  in. 

"Don't  speak  loud,  please,"  said  Lucy  to  th« 
men;   "mother  is  sick." 

She  knelt  down  by  the  still  insensible  boy. 


M  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"Where  is  he  hurt?"  she  asked. 

"On  the  head,  I  guess,"  said  one  of  the  men. 
They  withdrew  to  a  window,  where  they  whispered 
among  themselves. 

Lucy  lifted  the  hair  that  had  fallen  over  Arthur's 
forehead,  and  saw  the  dark  purple  bruise  that  dis- 
figured it. 

"Will  the  doctor  be  here  soon?"  she  asked  again. 

"Well,  not  so  very  soon,"  they  answered.  "The 
fact  is,  he's  gone  five  miles  to  see  old  Mrs.  Lovejoy 
who  was  took  with  a  fit." 

"/  must  do  something,  then,"  said  Lucy,  desper- 
ately. "  Could  a  leech  be  got  anywhere  ?  And  I 
wish  father  would  come." 

"  What  is  it  she  says  ? "  asked  one  of  the  men. 
"Is  it  a  blood-sucker  she  wants?  There's  a  plenty 
of  'em  handy  by.  But  I  never  beam  of  drawing 
out  a  feller's  blood  to  bring  him  to  life,  when  he's 
as  far  dead  as  that  boy." 

"I  should  like  to  try,"  said  Lucy,  hesitatingly, 
her  confidence  in  herself  wavering,  as  this  cold 
water  was  thrown  upon  it. 

The  leeches  were  brought;  great  repulsive-look- 
ing things,  fresh  from  a  neighboring  pond.  Lucy 
had  not  time,  or  rather  she  would  not  let  herself 
have  time,  to  feel  disgust,  as  she  applied,  with  a 
trembling  hand,  one  of  them  to  Arthur's  temple. 
In  a  few   minutes  the  greedy  creature  had  so  fai 


BABY   NUMBER    TWO.  5li 

doue  its  work  that  Arthur's  eyes  slowly  opened^ 
and  his  lips  murmured  the  word  "Horace.** 

"  He's  not  hurt,"  said  Lucy,  instantly  compre- 
hending the  anxiety  the  words  expressed.  "No- 
body  is  hurt  but  yourself,  and  you  are  getting 
better." 

*'  Here's  the  doctor  at  last,"  said  one  of  the  men, 
in  a  relieved  tone.  "Though  it's  my  opinion  that 
girl's  as  good,  any  day." 

The  doctor  examined  Arthur  carefully,  encour 
aged  the  flow  of  blood,  called  for  ice,  and  turned 
everybody,  save  Lucy,  out  of  the  room. 

"How's  that  young  one  in  there?"  he  asked, 
indicating  with  his  thumb  the  direction  he  wished 
to  designate. 

"  Very  well,  I  believe,"  she  answered.  *'  Oh,  why 
can't  he  tell  me  how  much  Arthur  is  hurt?"  she 
thought. 

"Who  put  on  that  leech?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"I  did,  sir.     Was  it  right?" 

"First-rate,"  he  answered.  "What  time  did  you 
get  up  this  morning?" 

"  I  didn't  go  to  bed  at  all  last  night,  sir." 

"No,  I  thought  you  didn't.  And  here  you  stand, 
looking  like  a  ghost.  Now,  do  you  go  and  lie 
down;  I'll  stay  with  the  boy.  I  shall  apply  the 
ice  when  the  blood  has  flowed  a  little  longer,  and 
■ha'n't  need  any  help." 


56  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"I  can't  go  till  I  know  how  much  he's  hurt,' 
said  she,  gathering  courage  from  her  very  fears. 

"Then  you  won't  go  this  day,"  he  answered 
"How  can  I  tell  how  much  he's  hurt?" 

"Do  you  think  any  of  his  bcnes  are  broken? 
she  asked. 

"No,  they're  not,"  said  Arthur,  once  more  open, 
ing  his  eyes. 

"That's  right,  my  fine  fellow,"  said  the  doctor 
"And  now.  Miss  Lucy,  off  with  you." 

Lucy  went,  for  she  knew  not  how  her  mothei 
had  fared  all  this  time.  She  found  Eebecca  en- 
gaged in  a  sharp  conflict  with  Horace,  whom  she 
was  vainly  trying  to  get  to  sleep. 

"Give  him  a  great  piece  of  gingerbread,"  said 
Lucy,  hurrying  on  to  her  mothers  room.  And  be- 
tween eating  his  gingerbread,  and  hugging  it  up, 
and  calling  it  his  horse,  Horace  soon  fell  asleep, 
and  there  was  a  lull  in  the  tempest  for  two  hours. 

"  I'm  thankful  you've  come,  dear,"  said  her 
mother,  as  Lucy  entered;  "the  baby  keeps  cry- 
ing, and  I  thought  I  heard  a  great  talking  and 
running;  and  began  to  think  something  had  hap- 
pened.    But  I'm  always  too  anxious." 

"I  was  busy,  or  I  would  have  come  sooner,* 
said  Lucy.  She  dared  not  trust  nerseif  to  say  any 
thing  more,  but  went  on  quietly  to  make  both 
mother  and  child   more   comfortable.     As  soon   as 


BABY    NUMBER    TWO.  57 

possible,  she  went  in  pursuit  of  Hatty,  who  had 
not  been  seen  since  Arthur  had  been  brought  in 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she  has  gone  for  father,* 
said  Tom.     **May  I  get  up  now?" 

Lucy  looked  at  him,  not  understanding  the 
question. 

"You  told  me  to  stay  and  watch  mother,"  said 
Tom,  "and  IVe  been  sitting  here  ever  since." 

"You  are  a  dear,  good  boy,"  cried  Lucy,  stop- 
ping to  kiss  the  round  cheek  that  blushed  at  these 
words  of  praise. 

"I  mean  always  to  be  a  good  boy  after  this," 
he  said. 

Lucy  now  stole  into  Arthur's  room.  The  doctor 
was  preparing  to  go.  He  gave  Lucy  a  few  direc- 
tions; promised  to  look  in  again  towards  night, 
and  went  his  way.  Lucy  longed  to  sit  down  by 
Arthur's  side,  and  tell  him  how  she  loved  him, 
and  how  it  almost  had  broken  her  heart  to  see 
iiim  lie  there  so  lifeless  and  motionless;  and  how 
she  was  sure  it  would  quite  break  if  he  should 
be  very  sick,  and — but  no,  she  could  not  think  of 
that.  The  doctor  had,  above  all  things,  directed 
quiet  for  Arthur,  and  she  would  not  indulge  her- 
self with  a  word.  She  only  knelt  down  and  kissed 
the  dear,  pale  face,  and  then  went  to  choose, 
from  among  the  children,  one  to  sit  in  the  sick- 
room.    Hatty  had  come  in  after  a  fruitless   search 


58  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

for  her  father,  and  begged  hard  to  be  allowed  thii 
privilege. 

"  1  am  afraid  you'll  talk,"  said  Lucy. 

"No,  I  won't;  I  won't  speak  a  word;  I'll  sit  just 
fio.     Look ! " 

Hatty  tried  to  compose  her  face  as  Lucy  looked 
at  her,  but  it  wouldn't  do.  She  burst  out  into  hys- 
terical weeping,  all  the  more  violent  from  long  sup- 
pression. 

"  You're  all  tired  out,  poor  child,"  said  Lucy :  and 
she  led  her  upstairs  and  made  her  lie  down,  when 
she  soon  cried  herself  to  sleep. 

Everything  seemed  to  fail  Lucy.  Her  father  could 
not  be  found;  Hatty  was  laid  up,  useless;  her  mo- 
ther helpless  in  bed:  she  felt  herself  needed  every- 
where at  once.  The  little  boys  reminded  her,  too, 
that  there  had  been  no  dinner  cooked,  and  that  fa- 
ther would  be  hungry  when  he  came  in. 

"  I  wish  1  could  think  so,"  she  said,  and  told  Tom 
that  he  had  been  so  very  good,  she  must  let  him 
go  and  sit  by  Arthur  a  little  while.  Tom  was  more 
than  thankful;  he  came  and  threw  his  arms  around 
her,  and  almost  choked  her  with  embraces. 

"  Mother,"  said  she,  looking  pleasantly  in  at  the 
door  of  the  bedroom,  after  Tom  had  gone,  "you 
can't  think  how  good  the  children  are — Tom  es- 
pecially." 

"That  comforts  me,"  returned  her  mother.     "I  was 


BABY    NUMBER    TWO.  69 

afraid  they  would  be  troublesome.  As  for  Tom, 
nobody  has  appeared  to  appreciate  him.  Ho  wants 
encouragement,  poor  boy." 

Mr.  Grant  now  came  in  to  dinner.  He  had  been 
at  a  distance  from  the  house  all  the  morning,  and 
had  not  heard  of  the  accident. 

He  went  in  to  look  at  the  baby  a  minute,  and  to 
speak  a  few  kind  words  to  his  wife. 

"The  children  are  as  good  and  quiet  as  possible, 
she  said,  in  answer  to  his  question,  "and  I  can't 
help  thinking,  as  I  lie  here,  how  thankful  we  ought 
to  be  that  we  have  such  comfort  in  them.  As  for 
this  baby,  I'm  sure  we've  never  had  so  fine  a  child 
before.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  proved  the  staff 
of  our  old  age." 

Grave  as  he  always  was,  and  unused  to  mirth, 
Mr.  Grant  was  moved  by  this  speech  to  a  peal  of 
laughter  that  called  every  child  within  hearing,  to 
the  door  of  the  bedroom. 

"The  idea  of  discovering  signs  of  a  brilliant  in- 
tellect in  a  creature  not  twenty-four  hours  old!  Oh, 
you  mothers !  Your  last  baby  is  always  a  wonder  I " 
he  cried. 

Mrs.  Grant  laughed  too,  and  looked  fondly  down 
upon  the  small  head  upon  her  arm. 

"You'll  see  1  am  right  this  time,"  she  said. 

Poor  Lucy,  unused  as  she  was  to  seeing  her  fa- 
ther  in  anything  like  a  joyous  mood,  dreaded  dis 


60  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

turbing  him  now  with  the  news  of  Arthur.  Yet  sh^ 
knew  he  would  miss  the  dear  boy  from  the  table, 
and  that  there  would  be  no  use  in  delaying  the  in- 
telligence.  She  took  him  aside,  therefore,  and  told 
it  as  gently  as  she  could. 

The  old  careworn  expression  that  for  a  moment 
had  been  gone  from  his  face,  came  back  and  settled 
itself  down  again  like  a  great  cloud.  But  he  said 
not  a  word,  and  went  straight  to  Arthur's  side. 

Lucy  watched  him  as  he  stood  there,  and  as  her 
eye  became  accustomed  to  the  darkness,  she  per- 
ceived that  Hatty  occupied  a  seat  in  a  distant  cor- 
ner, where  she  was  crying  quietly. 

"I  thought  you  were  upstairs  and  asleep,"  she 
whispered. 

**1  did  sleep  a  little  while,"  said  Hatty,  "but  I 
had  such  a  terrible  dream,  it  woke  me  up,  and  I 
came  down." 

Their  father  now  drew  Lucy  from  the  room. 

"Give  the  children  their  dinner,"  he  said:  "don't 
wait  for  me." 

"Oh,  father,  do  try  to  eat  a  little,"  said  Lucy, 
"just  to  please  us." 

"I  am  going  to  see  Dr.  White,  and  see  what  he 
thinks  of  Arthur,"  he  answered. 

"But  he  will  be  coming  in  soon,"  urged  Lucyi 
"and  it  is  getting  late,  and  you  were  up  all  night 
Do,  dear  father  I  *' 


BABY   NUMBER    TWO.  61 

He  let  her  lead  him  to  the  table,  and  as  he  aai 
opposite  her,  he  observed  for  the  first  time  how  pala 
she  looked. 

*'  I  don't  know  what  will  become  of  you,"  he  said. 
"You  look  already  worn  out." 

"Oh,  no,  father.  I  was  only  frightened  at  first, 
Arthur  looked  so  very  pale.  I  thought  once  he 
was  dead.  And  mother  being  sick,  and  you  not 
at  home — " 

"She  put  a  leech  on  Arthur,  her  own  self,"  said 
Tom. 

"A  leech  1"  said  her  father;  "who  told  you  to  do 
that?" 

"Nobody,  father,  but  I  thought  I  must  do  some- 
thing; and  it  seemed  to  me  I  had  read  somewhere 
that  ought  to  be  done." 

"Everything  comes  at  once,"  he  answered  de- 
spondingly. 

"Oh,  I  was  thinking  what  a  mercy  it  wasn't 
haying-time!"  said  Lucy.  And  now  she  had  the 
comfort  of  seeing  him  smile. 

When  the  doctor  came  at  night,  he  seemed  not  quite 
pleased  with  Arthur's  appearance,  Lucy  thought 

"Have  you  all  been  running  in  and  out,  crying 
and  talking  to  him?"  he  asked. 

Lucy  assured  him  the  room  had  been  quiet 

"What  are  the  plans  for  the  night?"  he  con- 
tinued. 


62  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"Lucy  must  not  be  up,  at  all  events,"  said  hei 
father. 

"By  no  means,"  said  tlie  doctor.  "I  was  going 
to  say  that  one  of  the  young  men  who  so  unfortu- 
nately  ran  over  Arthur  has  been  anxiously  inquir- 
ing about  him;  and  he  proposes  spending  the  night 
by  his  side.  He  has  been  used  to  sickness;  and, 
in  fact,  would  suit  me  better  than  any  stupid 
woman  you  could  call  in;  this  night,  at  least." 

Dr.  White  always  had  things  his  own  way; 
and  though  not  one  of  the  family  liked  to  relin- 
quish the  care  of  Arthur  to  a  stranger,  no  one 
dared  object.  Indeed,  it  was  necessary  they  all 
should  have  rest. 

Lucy  had  learned,  from  her  mother's  example, 
not  to  tease  a  physician  with  questions.  But  she 
knew  Dr.  White  well,  and  felt  sure,  from  his  man- 
ner, that  he  was  anxious  about  Arthur.  He  al- 
ways assumed  a  jocose,  careless  tone  when  his  feel- 
ings were  stirred;  and  Arthur  had  been  his  favorite 
for  years.  As  he  left  the  room  with  her  father, 
her  heart  sank  within  her.  Venturing  to  take  one 
of  Arthur's  hands  gently  in  her  own,  she  was 
startled  to  find  it  hot  and  dry;  and  amid  the  dark- 
ness of  the  room,  she  fancied  she  could  detect  an 
unnatural  glow  upon  his  cheek.  The  tears  fell 
Qpon  the  hand  she  held,  but  Arthur  did  not  heed 
them,   or  in  any  way  notice  her.     She  thought   if 


BABY   NUMBER    TWO.  6S 

Ue  would  speak  to  her  once  more,  and  say  he  loved 
her,  she  could  lie  right  down  and  die  with  joy. 
But  as  for  years  she  had  had  no  time  for  dreams, 
so  she  had  now  no  time  for  grief;  but,  taking  the 
great  weight  with  her  wherever  she  went,  she 
returned  to  the  family.  She  found  Rebecca  pa- 
tiently submitting  to  the  caprices  of  Horace,  who 
had  made  up  his  mind  not  to  go  to  bed  until  Lucy 
came  to  undress  him.  She  took  him,  sending  Re- 
becca to  take  Hatty's  place  in  the  sick-room,  and 
sat  down  with  him  in  a  low  chair,  when  he  will 
ingly  yielded  himself  to  her  pleasure. 

**  Has  Horace  had  his  supper  ?  "  she  asked. 

*'No,  no,"  said  the  child. 

"Why,  he's  had  a  lot  of  supper,"  said  Tom.  "I 
saw  Rebecca  give  it  to  him  with  my  own  eyes." 

"He's  so  sleepy  he  doesn't  know  what  he*s  say- 
ing," said  Lucy,  and  she  drew  him  up  tenderly  in 
her  arms,  and  carried  him  for  a  good-night  kisa 
to  his  mother.  In  a  sleepy  voice  he  repeated  to 
her  as  he  glanced  down  at  the  baby  by  her  side: 

'•  I  big  boy  now  I  " 

Lucy  took  him  up  to  her  own  little  room,  and 
made  him  comfortable  in  bed.  She  was  in  the 
habit  of  singing  him  to  sleep,  for  he  was  still  only 
a  baby,  his  own  opinion  to  the  contrary  notwith- 
Btanding.  But  now,  when  she  began  to  sing  hei 
voice  trembled,  and  was  choked  with  tears 


64  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"This  won't  do,"  she  said  to  heiself;  and  rising 
up  from  the  bed  where  she  had  thrown  herself  by 
the  side  of  Horace,  she  clenched  her  hands  almost 
fiercely  together,  and  forced  back  her  tears  with 
a  resolution  that  never  failed  when  demanded. 
And  after  this,  stir  as  they  might  in  her  heart, 
there  were  no  tears  in  her  eyes.  Horace  was  soon 
soothed  into  sleep  by  the  hymn  she  now  calmly 
sang  to  him,  and  then  she  went  down  to  get  tea 
ready,  for  it  was  quite  late.  She  found  Dr.  White 
had  not  gone;  he  had  been  paying  Arthur  another 
visit,  and  had  promised  to  stay  to  tea. 

"I  haven't  heard  yet  how  this  accident  hap- 
pened," said  Mr.  Grant. 

"Why,  Arthur  was  going  up  the  road  with 
one  of  the  family  in  a  basket  on  a  sled;  Miss 
Hatty,  I  suppose,"  said  the  doctor,  mischievously; 
"and  two  young  men,  strangers  here,  came  behind 
in  a  sleigh,  and  their  horses,  taking  fright  at  the 
basket  and  its  contents,  became  unmanageable.  Ar- 
thur had  time  to  run  out  of  the  way  himself,  but 
one  of  the  children  stood  stupidly  still,  right  in 
the  way  of  the  horses.  Arthur  flew  back  and 
caught  the  child,  but  was  somehow  knocked  down 
himself.'* 

"They  were  silly  horses,"  said  Tom.  "/  wasn't 
afraid  of  the  basket  a  bit." 

The   doctor    laughed.     "Your    mind    isn't    in    a 


BABY   NUMBER    TWO.  6.) 

rery  lively  state  to-night,"  said  he.  "I  guess  it 
wants  to  ^o  to  bed." 

"No,  it  doesn't,"  said  Tom.  "I  a'n't  a  going 
to  bed  at  all  to-night.  I'm  going  to  sit  up  and 
take  care  of  Arthur." 

Dr.  White  laughed  again ;  Lucy  wished  he  wouldn't ; 
and  she  hurried  Tom,  nervously,  off  to  get  wood  for 
the  fire. 

This  long  day  came  to  an  end  at  last.  The  chil- 
dren were  all  in  bed;  her  mother  made  comfortable 
for  the  night,  and  her  father  went  with  Lucy  to 
take  a  last  look  at  Arthur. 

The  young  man  who  had  offered  his  services  for 
the  night,  sat  by  the  bedside,  and  a  single  sentence 
from  his  lips  assured  them  that  the  dear  boy  was 
in  good  hands. 

"Such  a  voice  comes  from  a  kind  heart,"  whis- 
pered Mr.  Grant,  as  he  bade  Lucy  good-night. 
*'We  may  feel  easy,  I  think.  And  now,  darling, 
do  try  to  get  some  sleep." 

And  poor  Lucy  went  up  to  hei  room  silently 
and  prayed;  but  did  not  sleep. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


SORROW  AT  NIQEZ  JOT  IN  THE  MORNING. 


^IRTHUR  had  a  restless  night,  and  could 
^  not  sleep.  He  had  magnified,  in  his 
own  mind,  the  trouble  his  injury  was 
making  in  the  family,  at  a  time  when 
everybody  seemed  fully  occupied,  until  it  seemed 
like  a  mountain,  over  which  his  thoughts  could 
not  climb.  When  his  father  opened  the  door  and 
looked  in  at  day-break,  he  was  tossing  about  from 
side  to  side,  and  it  needed  no  physician's  eye  to 
perceive  that  he  was  becoming  seriously  ill.  After 
exchanging  a  few  words  with  the  young  man,  Mr. 
Grant  thanked  him  and  relieved  him  of  his  charge 
at  the  bedside. 

"His  mind  wanders  at  times,"  whispered  the 
stranger,  as  he  took  leave.  "  He  seems  to  think 
you  are  going  to  be  dragged  to  jail  for  debt." 

A  flush  almost  as  dark  as  that  on  Arthurs  face 
passed  over  that  of  the  unhappy  father;  and  mark 


SORROW  AT  NIGHT,  JOY  IN  THE  MORNING.      67 

ing  it,  without  seeming  to  do  so,  the  young  man 
withdrew,  with  a  delicacy  worthy  of  a  woman.  Im- 
mediately afterwards,  Lucy  stole  in.  Her  disap- 
pointed  look  as  she  approached  the  bed,  showed 
her  father  that  she  read  the  case,  as  he  had' 
done. 

"Is  any  one  else  up?"  he  asked. 

"Hatty  is;  she'll  be  down  directly.  How  is 
mother  ?  " 

"  She  had  a  good  night,  and  is  asleep  still.  When 
Hatty  comes,  let  her  sit  here;  I  want  to  speak  to 

you." 

He  went  out,  and  when  Lucy  joined  him,  he  asked 
abruptly: 

**  Who  told  Arthur  I  was  going  to  jail  for 
debt?" 

"Nobody,  father,  that  I  know  of.  I  don't  know 
who  told  him  there  was  any  debt." 

"But  you  are  sure  he  knew  there  was  one?" 

"  Yes,  he  knew  it ;  but  he  hasn't  known  it 
long." 

"1  thought  I  knew  what  trouble  meant,'*  said 
her  father,  "but  it  seems  I  did  not  know  the  first 
letter  of  its  alphabet.  And  so  he  told  you,  you 
Bay?" 

"I  knew  it  before,"  replied  Lucy.  ''I've  known 
it  a  good  while  now.  And  oh,  dear  father,  I  did 
want  so  to  tell  you  how  sorry  Arthur  and  I  were 


68  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

for  you,  and  how  willing  we  felt  to  work,  or  do 
anything  that  would  relieve  you ! " 

He  folded  her  in  his  arms  and  laid  his  hand  sol- 
emnly upon  her  head,  as  if  calling  down  blessings 
upon  it.  At  this  moment  Lucy  heard  the  voice  of 
Horace. 

"I  must  go,  or  Horace  will  wake  mother,"  said 
she;  and  so  began  another  day  of  domestic  care 
and  duty. 

As  she  went  from  task  to  task,  she  felt,  as  she 
never  had  done  before,  the  difference  between  the 
earthly  and  the  heavenly  love.  These  cares  kept 
her  from  Arthur's  side,  where  she  so  longed  to  be, 
but  they  could  not  separate  her  from  God.  Doing 
everything  for  His  sake  and  in  His  fear,  she  could 
continually  look  up  to  and  commune  with  Him. 
And  with  the  deep  sorrow,  there  was  peace  in  hei 
heart. 

Arthur  became  worse  from  hour  to  hour,  and 
Dr.  White  attended  him  with  almost  parental 
devotion. 

Kind  neighbors  came  to  lighten  and  share  the 
household  labors,  and  the  young  men  of  the  village 
came  at  the  close  of  a  hard  day,  to  watch  all  night 
by  the  sick  boy.  Even  those  stranger-gentlemen  re- 
fused to  go  whence  they  came,  until  they  could  be 
assured  of  his  safety.  It  became  impossible,  with 
BO  many  coming  and  going,  to  keep  Arthur's  mother 


SORROW  AT  NIGHT,  JOY  IN    THE  MORNING.      69 

ill  ignorance  of  his  illness.  From  that  hour  she 
ceased  improving,  and  the  poor  baby  pined  and 
moaned  in  concert  with  her.  Those  were  hard,  bard 
days.  They  never  knew  how  they  lived  through 
them.  They  did  not  see  the  Hand  that  was  under-" 
neath  them,  or  they  would  not  have  wondered  at 
passing  safely  through  seas  of  fire.  But  Arthur  was 
not  yet  to  be  snatched  away.  After  many  weeks 
of  severe  illness  he  began  slowly  to  amend,  and 
the  pressure  of  anxiety  was  lifted  from  their  hearts. 
They  had  yet,  however,  a  difficult  task  before  them. 
The  little  wasted  form  seemed  almost  lifeless  aa 
soon  as  the  fever  left  him ;  and  to  an  inexperienced 
eye,  he  looked  more  alarmingly  ill  than  when  flushed 
in  the  height  of  his  disease.  Lucy  proved  a  good 
nurse.  She  understood  Arthur's  wishes  before  they 
were  spoken,  and  nobody  could  feed  him  so  well, 
or  sing  so  soothingly,  or  read  to  him  the  little  he 
could  bear  to  hear. 

"Well!"  said  Hatty,  one  day,  **I  tJiought  you 
would  get  well.  I  never  believed  you  would  go 
and  die,  and  leave  all  of  us." 

"I  might  do  a  worse  thing,"  said  Arthur. 

*'A  worse  thing  than  die!"  cried  liatty.  "Oh! 
Arthur." 

"I  thought  when  I  was  knocked  down  that  day 
that  I  was  hurt  very  much.  I  only  had  a  minute 
to  think.     But  I  was  not  frightened." 


TO  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"No,  you  were  always  so  good,"  said  Hatty. 

"It  wasn't  that,"  said  Arthur.  '* It  was  because 
Christ  is  so  good,"  he  added,  after  a  pause. 

Hatty  colored,  and  made  some  trifling  answer; 
and  when,  some  hours  later,  they  missed  her,  she 
was  crying  upstairs.  But  she  came  down  in  as 
lively  a  mood  as  ever,  soon  after;  for  only  the  sur- 
face of  her  gay  heart  had  yet  been  touched. 

Arthur's  sickness  had  disarranged  all  household 
business,  and  after  his  recovery,  the  care  of  the  baby, 
and  the  accumulated  sewing  of  many  weeks,  occu- 
pied them  all,  incessantly.  Eebecca  left  school  "for 
good,"  as  she  called  it;  but,  as  usual,  Lucy  stood  fore- 
most in  the  ranks,  and  made  herself  useful  at  every 
point.  At  the  same  time,  the  old  thirst  for  knowl- 
edge had  received  an  impulse.  Arthur's  illness  had 
left  him  delicate;  she  felt  sure  he  could  make  no 
farmer,  for  lack  of  physical  strength;  he  must 
have  an  education.  Slie  tried  to  rise  earlier  and 
to  sit  up  later,  but  very  little  was  accomplished 
in  these  fragments  of  time.  Her  health  began  to 
suffer. 

"Lucy,  was  that  you  coughing  all  last  night?" 
her  mother  asked  one  morning. 

"I  coughed  some,"  said  Lucy. 

"She  coughs  every  night,"  said  Arthur. 

The  father  and  mother  interchanged  anxiont 
glances. 


SORROW  AT   NIGHT,  JOY  IN  THE   MORNING.      71 

His  said,  "Just  as  my  sister  did,  who  died  at 
her  age." 

Hers  said,  "I  know  it,"  and  there  was  silence 
for  a  time. 

"Have  you  paid  Dr.  White's  bill  yet?"  asked 
Lucy  at  last. 

"No,"  said  her  father,  "not  yet.  He  hasn't  sent 
it." 

"It  will  come  to-morrow,"  said  Lucy;  "it  always 
does  on  New- Year's  Day." 

She  had  a  vague  hope  that  the  mention  of  a  bill 
would  deter  her  father  from  calling  in  Dr.  White  for 
her  cough,  as  his  face  said  he  intended  doing.  But 
she  was  mistaken.  The  next  day  the  doctor  came, 
and  she  found  herself  fairly  in  his  hands.  He  pre- 
pared medicine  for  her,  with  directions  for  its  use; 
then  turning  to  Mrs.  Grant,  he  said, 

"  And  here's  medicine  for  you  too." 

"  For  me  ?  Why,  1  am  not  sick,"  she  said,  looking 
at  the  paper  he  placed  in  her  hand.  It  was  a  check 
for  fifty  dollars. 

"You  haven't  done  joking  yet?"  she  said  smiling, 
and  offering  to  return  it. 

"It's  no  joke,  I  assure  you,"  he  returned.  "The 
case  is  just  this:  One  of  those  youngsters  who  ran 
over  Arthur  wrote  me,  not  long  ago,  that  he  has  come 
of  age  and  into  his  property,  and  inquires  what  is 
the  damage      I  wrote  him,  why,  fifty  dollars;  and 


72  THE    FLOWER    OP    THE    FAMILY 

back  it  comes,  with  my  lord's  compliments  and  re» 
grets,  and  is  sure  it  ought  to  be  more,  and  wishes  1 
had  said  a  hundred,  and  so  on  and  so  on." 

"  I  sha'n't  keep  it,"  said  Mrs.  Grant. 

*'  Yes  you  shall  keep  it.  What  else  would  you  do 
with  it,  pray  ?  " 

"  Keturn  it  to  Mr. what  did  you  say  hie 

name  was?" 

"  I  didn't  say  his  name  was  *  Mr.'  anything.  And 
you  don't  know  where  he  lives,  either." 

"  I  can  find  out." 

"No,  you  can't;  and  you  shouldn't,  if  you  could.  I 
tell  you  it's  no  use,"  he  said,  rising  and  seizing  his 
hat;  "the  fellow  has  gone  abroad.  Besides,  what  is 
fifty  dollars  to  him?  If  you  were  not  all  of  you  so 
high  in  the  instep,  I  should  have  made  it  a  hundred. 
It  would  have  been  poor  payment  for  all  you  have 
Bufi'ered:  and  the  upshot  of  the  matter  is,  I  wash  my 
hands  of  it."  He  was  hurrying  off,  but  came  back 
again.  "As  for  this  child,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand 
jn  Lucy's  head,  and  making  the  sweet  face  look  up 
into  his  own,  "she  must  go  away  somewhere,  and 
rest  a  while.  The  cough's  not  so  bad  now;  I've  cured 
worse ;  but  I  can't  promise  what  it  won't  run  into  if 
she  goes  on  fagging  as  she  has  done.  And  say  to 
your  father,  my  dear,  that  he  needn't  look  very  sharp 
for  my  bill  this  year.  It  won't  come.  I  don't  need 
money."    And  this  time  he  fairly  ran. 


SORROW  AT   NIGHT,   JOY  IN   THE   MORNING.      73 

"He  does  need  it,"  said  Mrs.  Grant;  and  she 
thought,  even  with  tears,  how  long  his  wife  had 
worn  that  shawl,  that  hardly  looked  as  if  it  would 
hold  together  another  week. 

^' It's  dreadful  to  be  poor!"  Lucy  burst  out,  think- 
ing of  the  same  thing.  '*  I  don't  mind  it  for  myself, 
but  when  it  comes  to  not  paying  Dr.  White ! " 

'*  He'll  get  his  due  from  the  great  Paymaster,"  said 
her  mother,  wiping  away  her  tears;  "and  He  gives 
full  measure,  pressed  down,  and  running  over." 

"  Fifty  dollars ! "  said  Tom,  who  had  sat  all  this 
time  in  amazement  too  profound  for  utterance;  *'  why, 
we're  as  rich  as  kings ! " 

His  mother  smiled  and  sighed  too. 

"  Lucy  leave  home !  To  go  where  ?  "  she  thought. 
"  This  will  take  you  somewhere,  dear,"  she  said. 

"No,  it  won't,  mother,"  said  Lucy,  kissing  the 
faded  cheek,  now  flushed  both  with  joy  and  sorrow. 
"Let  it  be  Arthur's  nest-egg.  It  will  help  him  in 
college.     Do,  dear  mother ! " 

"  I  am  not  going  to  college,"  said  Arthur. 

"  I  hope  something  may  happen  to  make  you  alter 
your  mind  about  that,  dear  boy,"  said  his  mother, 
looking  at  him  anxiously. 

"  At  any  rate,  Lucy  has  got  to  go  away,"  said  Ar« 
thur.     "  She's  very  thin." 

"  So  are  you,"  said  Lucy,  smiling.  "  And  just  think, 
what  a  foolish  idea  to  send  me  ofi*,  nobody  knows 


74  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

where,  and  all  alone!  I  shouldnt  get  well  in  a 
hundred  years  at  that  rate." 

While  they  talked  together,  their  mother  sat  silent 
and  thoughtful,  and  was  thoughtful  all  day.  She 
knew  of  no  spot  this  side  of  heaven  where  her  child 
could  find  rest.  '*  She'll  find  it  there  if  anybody  does," 
she  said  to  herself. 

"Don't  be  troubled,  mother,"  whispered  Lucy; 
"  there'll  be  a  way  provided." 

It  was  provided  even  then.  It  was  standing  at  the 
window  of  the  little  post-office,  in  the  shape  of  a  let- 
ter, that,  ignorant  of  its  own  worth  and  importance, 
let  itself  be  placed  in  a  row  with  other  letters  of  "no 
use  to  anybody  but  the  owner."  It  had  remained 
two  or  three  days,  quiet,  and  modest,  and  unobserved, 
and  many  nobodies  on  its  right  hand  and  on  its  left 
had  been  borne  off  in  triumph,  while  it,  poor  soul, 
(for  it  had  a  soul,)  had  stood  neglected. 

As  John  Grant  was  returning  home  to  tea  that 
night,  he  happened  to  pass  the  office,  where  he  saw 
the  letter,  and  eagerly  pounced  upon  it — letters  being 
rarities  in  those  regions.  It  was  for  his  father,  and 
although  he  turned  it  in  every  possible  direction,  he 
could  not  even  guess  who  it  was  from. 

*'  Here's  a  letter  for  you,  father ! "  he  cried,  as  he 
rushed  like  a  tempest  into  the  house. 

His  father  put  on  his  spectacles,  and  examined  the 
letter  with  deliberation.     He  studied  the  post-mark 


SORROW   AT   NIGHT,  JOY  IN  THE   MORNING.      75 

pored  over  the  handwriting,  and  reflected  on  th« 
Beal.  People  always  do  so,  especially  when  a  host 
of  eager  children  stand  around,  saying  in  their 
secret  minds,  "  Dear  me  !  will  he  Tiever  open  it?  '*  At 
last  the  seal  was  broken,  and  with  deliberation  still 
was  read  and  re-read,  and  folded  and  tucked  into  tho 
great  family  Bible.  It  was  no  mere  business-letter, 
that  was  certain.  Mr.  Grant  would  have  thought 
the  quaint  old  volume,  that  he  could  trace  back 
almost  to  the  May  Flower,  profaned  by  contact  with 
a  worldly  document.  Nobody  dared  to  ask  a  ques- 
tion, but  everybody  felt  sure  something  had  hap- 
pened. 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  somebody  had  sent  father 
fifty  dollars  too,"  said  Hatty,  in  confidence,  to  Lucy, 
skipping  upstairs  that  night,  two  at  a  time.  "  And 
fifty  and  fifty  make  a  hundred." 

"Do  they  really?*'  asked  Lucy,  laughing. 

"You  needn't  laugh,"  said  Hatty;  "I'm  sure  we 
need  it  badly." 

"  We  need  many  things,"  said  Lucy;  "things  that 
can't  be  bought  or  sold." 

'*0h,  yes,"  said  Hatty,  yawning;  "sleep,  for  in- 
stance;" and  she  hurried  ofi*  to  bed,  for  fear  hwc^ 
should  "moralize,"  as  she  called  it. 

As  soon  as  the  children  had  all  retired  for  the 
night,  Mr.  Grant  placed  the  letter  in  their  mother'f 
hands.     She  read  it  hastily    and  half  aloud 


76  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY 

"Mr  Deab  Brother: 

"  The  year  is  about  closing,  and  I  have  been  very 
busy  settling  up  accounts.  ('  He*s  going  to  dun  ua 
for  that  money/  sighed  Mrs.  Grant.)  But  I  cannot 
longer  delay  settling  with  you  that  greatest  of  them 
all.  I  owe  you,  and  have  owed  you  many  long 
years — God  forgive  me  for  it — a  hearty  acknowledg- 
ment of  great  and  grievous  wrong  to  you  and  yours. 
Now,  that  I  look  at  my  life  in  a  new  light — the  light 
of  God's  countenance — I  seem  to  myself  unworthy 
the  pardon  I  yet  cannot  refrain  from  imploring.  My 
dear  brother!  my  dear  sister!  can  you  forgive  my 
hasty  words,  my  unkind  deeds? 

•'I  would  have  come  to  ask  it  in  person,  but  my 
dear  and  only  daughter  lies  before  me,  very  ill.  1 
have  been  prospered  in  my  business — am  rich,  and 
increased  with  goods;  and  never,  till  God  placed  his 
hand  upon  this  precious  child,  did  I  feel  my  need  of 
aught  better  than  this  world  had  given  me.  Pray 
for  me,  and  for  this  child.  She  is  my  only  daughter, 
a  most  lovely  and  beloved  one.  1  can  write  no  more, 
though  my  heart  is  full! 

"Affectionately  your  brother, 

"Arthur  Whittier." 

Mrs.  Grant  drew  a  long,  relieved  sigh,  as  she 
dosed  this  letter,  as  if  parting,  as  was  really  the 


SORROW  AT   NIGHT,  JOY   IN  THE   MORNING.      77 

case,  with  the  great  sorrow  and  burden  of  hei 
life. 

"I  can  bear  anything  now,"  she  said. 

"  It  comes  too  late,"  returned  her  husband.  *'  You 
have  suffered  too  long.  When  I  think  of  it,  my 
blood  boils!'* 

"Let  us  look  at  our  mercies,  and  forget  the  rest,* 
said  Mrs.  Grant.  "My  poor  brother  I  We  should 
pity  rather  than  reproach  him  I " 

The  heart  of  her  husband  melted  for  the  moment, 
as  he  looked  upon  the  pale,  worn  face,  now  lighted 
with  such  pure  joy. 

"  I  do  forgive  him  I "  he  cried.  "  Let  us  thank  God 
that  this  feud  is  swept  away  1  ** 

Falling  upon  their  knees,  they  presented  their 
thank-offering  unto  the  Lord;  and  then,  sitting 
closely  together  over  the  fading  fire  on  the  hearth, 
they  talked  long  of  past  times,  and  of  the  days  of 
their  youth  and  love. 

"  It  seems  but  yesterday  that  I  held  brother  Ar* 
thur  in  my  arms,  as  I  do  this  child,"  said  Mrs.  Grant, 
as  she  took  the  baby  from  the  cradle,  and  prepared 
for  bed. 

"  It  is  not  easy  for  us  men  to  forget  wrongs,"  said 
Mr.  Grant,  who  felt  irritated,  he  hardly  knew  why, 
at  the  caresses  she  was  lavishing  on  the  child. 

*'  It  is  not  as  a  man  you  are  called  on  to  forgive 
them/   said  she,  "but  as  a  Christian." 


78  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"I  don't  .feel  right  yet,"  he  answered.  "Go  td 
bed,  Sarah,  and  leave  me  awhile." 

She  looked  troubled,  and,  standing  behind  hia 
chair,  waited  for  a  parting  word  of  more  cheer.  But 
none  came,  and  she  left  him.  He  rose  as  the  door 
closed  behind  her,  and  walked  to  and  fro  in  the  long, 
dark  room,  with  clasped  hands  and  a  contracted 
brow,  wrestling  with  God  in  such  conflict  as  is  never 
witnessed  by  mortal  eye. 

"  It  was  a  grievous  wrong ! "  he  said.  *'  It  has 
blighted  my  whole  life !  Y<^t.  I  fancied  I  had  for- 
given it.     0  my  God,  help  me  to  do  it  now !  " 

"The  wrong  was  great,"  whispered  a  still,  small 
voice;  "but  did  not  prejudice  and  passion  aggravate 
it?  Were  you  blameless  and  undefiled  in  this 
thing?" 

"  His  sin  against  me  is  naught  in  comparison  with 
mine  against  God!"  he  cried,  at  last.  And  now 
he  ceased  from  that  restless  progress  up  and  down 
the  lonely,  dark  room,  and  falling  upon  his  knees, 
he  prayed  long  and  tearfully,  and  without  passion 
or  excitement. 

The  night-watches  looked  upon  the  conflict,  and 
the  morning  dawned  upon  the  victory. 

"You  have  not  been  to  bed  at  all,"  said  his  wife, 
opening  the  door  of  their  room,  and  looking  anx 
iously  out. 

"I    have    had    a    good    night,"    he     answered; 


SORROW  AT  NIGHT,  JOY  IN  THE   MORNING.      79 

and  as  she  looked  into  his  face,  she,  who  knew 
its  every  light  and  shade,  saw  that  it  had  been  a 
good  night;  such  an  one  as  should  have  come 
years  ago. 

*'Now  my  cup  runs  over/*  she  said. 


CHAPTER    VII. 


THE  UNCLE'S  VISIT. 


HE  children  all  perceived,  the  next  day,  that 
they  were  still  to  ask  no  questions  about 
the  letter  that  had  excited  their  curiosity ; 
they  were  told  that  it  was  from  their  uncle, 
and  nothing  more  was  said.  Lucy*s  health  began  to 
improve,  however,  from  that  day.  Seeing  one  cloud 
gone  from  her  father's  brow,  and  catching  the  sun- 
shine that  glowed  in  her  mother's  smile,  she  felt  a 
weight  lifted  from  her  heart,  that  made  her  appear 
to  herself  and  her  parents  really  almost  well.  This 
proved,  however,  only  a  transient  improvement,  for 
her  cough  still  continued.  Meanwhile,  letters  from 
Mr.  Whittier  became  frequent  now.  The  recovery 
of  his  daughter  was  announced  as  proceeding  rapidly, 
and  there  was  conveyed  the  hope,  at  least,  that  after 
so  many  years  of  separation  there  would  be  a  speedj? 
meeting.     These  letters  were  read  to  the  children 


THE    uncle's    visit.  iKl 

who  rejoiced  in  the  prospect  of  seeing,  for  the  first 
time  in  their  lives,  a  real  unde. 

They  sat  one  evening  around  the  great  pine 
table  busy  with  books  and  work  and  talk.  Tallow 
candles  of  home  manufacture  were  dispersed  here 
and  there  about  the  table,  for  the  convenience  of 
those  who  sewed  or  read,  but  which  failed  to  light 
up  aught  save  a  circumscribed  circle.  The  great 
kitchen  would  have  been  dark,  in  spite  of  them, 
but  for  the  noble  fire  on  the  wide  hearth,  which 
illuminated  with  a  comfortable  glow  every  youth- 
ful face. 

'*  That's  what  I  call  a  fire,"  remarked  Arthur,  who 
had  just  arranged  it  afresh. 

"See  how  the  flames  creep  around  the  cold  fore- 
stick,  and  hug  it  up ! "  he  cried. 

"How  do  you  know  they  hug  it?"  asked  Rebecca; 
that  matter-of-fact  young  lady  finding  the  figure  in- 
comprehensible. "  But  you're  always  saying  strange 
things." 

"  I  know  it  by  my  wisdom,"  he  returned,  laughing 
"  And  hark,  now !  Don't  you  hear  the  logs  singing 
to  the  flames,  and  thanking  them  for  their  friend- 
ship?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Rebecca,  "nor  you  either." 

"I  wouldn't  thank  anybody  for  friendship  thai 
burned  me  up,"  said  Hatty.  • 

"  Wlien  Uncle  Arthur  comes,  we'll  have  a  rouwr 


62  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

said  Tom,  who  sat  contemplatively  viewing  the  fire 
"Mother!  was  our  Arthur  named  for  Uncle?" 

"Why,  no,  indeed,"  cried  Hatty;  "he  was  named 
for  Grandfather." 

"  It  seems  very  odd  that  mother  should  have  had 
a  father,"  said  Tom. 

"It  would  be  a  great  deal  odder  if  she  hadn't,' 
retorted  Hatty.  "  Oh  dear  1  what  a  long  seam  1 
Lucy,  how  far  have  you  got  on  yours!  Almost  to 
the  end?    Well — how  you  do  sew!" 

Lucy  smiled,  and  went  on ;  then  stopped  to  cough. 

"  I  can't  have  this,"  said  her  mother.  "  With  that 
cough,  I  can't  let  you  sit  bending  over  work." 

"I'll  sit  straighter,  then,"  said  Lucy. 

"No,  dear,  that  won't  do.  There,  give  it  to  me 
now.     You  must  get  well  first." 

"  We've  a  great  deal  to  do  this  winter,"  said  Lucy. 
"And  it's  February  now.  When  will  the  work  get 
done,  if  I  sit  still  and  idle,  I  wonder  ? " 

"The  winter  is  only  half  gone,"  said  Kebecca. 
"  *  Candlemas-day.  Half  your  wood  and  half  your 
liay.'" 

"  But  not  half  your  work,"  said  Hatty. 

"They  couldn't  get  *work'  in,"  said  Rebecca 
**  But  they  meant  it  all  the  same." 

^^  You'll  never  set  the  world  on  fire,"  said  Hatty 

**1  don't  want  to,"  Rebecca  answered  quietly. 

"She's  set  somebody  on  fire,  though,"  said  Arthur 


THE    UNCLE'S    VISIT.  83 

"John  Wright  says  she's  the  prettiest  girl  he 
knows."  On  hearing  John  Wright's  testimony,  the 
children  all  laughed.  Eebecca  alone  sat  silent  and 
embarrassed. 

"Who  cares  for  John  Wright?"  she  said  at  last 

A  fresh  burst  of  laughter  was  the  only  reply. 

Lucy  looked  up  at  Arthur,  and  shook  her  head 
a  little,  though  she  smiled. 

*'I  wouldn't,"  she  said. 

He  smilingly  shook  his  head  at  her,  and  said 
"Well,  I  won't,  then." 

After  a  few  moments'  silence  he  looked  uj? 
again. 

"Lucy,  can  you  show  me  about  this  sum  now? 

She  went  around  to  his  side  of  the  table;  he 
made  room  for  her  on  his  own  chair.  She  saw 
that  he  had  written  something  on  his  slate  for  her 
to  read.  She  looked  over  his  shoulder  and  read 
it:  "John  Wright  says  he  is  afraid  of  you." 

She  laughed,  and  wrote  back,  "Yes.  I  know 
I'm  a  monster." 

"But,  Lucy,  you  never  say  anything  to  him 
when  he  comes  here." 

"  That's  because  I  am  afraid  of  him." 

Arthur  stopped  playing  now,  and  listened  to  the 
explanation  of  the  difficulty. 

"How  quickly  you  understand,"  said  she. 

"How  nicely  you  explain,"  he  answered. 


84  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"Mother,  don't  you  think  Lucy  would  make  a 
first-rate  teacher  ?  "  he  asked. 

*'We   must   make   her   well   first,"  she   answered 

"There's  somebody  knocking,"  said  Tom,  hurry 
ing  towards  the  door. 

*'  It's  only  John  Wright,  I  dare  say,"  whispered 
Arthur. 

But  not  all  the  John  Wrights  in  the  world  could 
have  made  their  mother  utter  such  a  cry  of  joy  as 
that  with  which  she  now  greeted  the  figure  Tom 
had  admitted. 

"It  must  be  Uncle  Arthur,"  said  Hatty.  "Ke- 
becca,  look  quick:  is  my  hair  decent?" 

Yes,  it  was  Uncle  Arthur;  and  by  his  side  stood 
a  boy  of  fourteen,  perhaps,  whom  he  soon  intro- 
duced as  his  son  Charles,  and  on  whom  the  chil- 
dren looked  with  reverence.  For  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  air  of  this  city  boy  so  utterly  superior 
to  that  of  any  one  in  the  village  that  even  Hatty 
hung  back  a  little  abashed.  He  soon  made  them  feel 
at  their  ease,  however,  by  feeling  so  himself;  and 
while  Lucy  went  to  see  what  could  be  mustered 
for  supper,  the  whole  party  became  acquainted. 

"I  wish  Helen  had  come,"  said  Charles,  look- 
ing around  with  an  air  of  satisfaction,  "but  she 
wouldn't." 

"Is  she  older  or  younger  than  you?*'  asked 
Hatty. 


THE    UNCLES    VISIT.  m 

"Older,"  said  Charles.  "She's  a  very  pretty  girl 
Her  hair  is  just  like  yours." 

"It  runs  in  the  family,"  said  Hatty. 

"I  can  pop  corn,"  said  Tom,  finding  himself 
overlooked. 

"  You  must  pop  some  for  me,  then,"  said  Charles. 

"Right  away?"  asked  Tom  eagerly. 

Charles  laughed,  and  said  yes,  he  couldn't  wait; 
and  Tom  ran  off  to  get  some  corn,  in  a  perfect 
tumult  of  delight. 

Lucy,  with  Rebecca's  aid,  soon  prepared  a  sup- 
per for  the  travellers,  and  summoned  them  to  the 
table. 

"I  haven*t  seen  such  bread  and  butter  since  I 
was  a  boy,"  said  their  uncle.  "You  must  have 
an  admirable  cook." 

The  girls  smiled.  **  Mother  makes  all  the  bread, ' 
said  Lucy. 

"And  Rebecca  and  Lucy  make  the  butter,"  said 
their  mother. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you  keep  no  cook?" 
said  Mr.  Whittier. 

"I  don't  mean  to  say  anything  about  it,"  she 
answered. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  said;  "but  really  this  is  bad 
business.  Your  girls  will  be  fit  for  nothing.''  He 
seemed  so  troubled  that  he  couldn't  help  speaking, 
for  his  own  relief. 


8o  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"  tl  nk  them  good  for  a  great  deal,"  said  Mra 
Grant. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  dare  say;  I'm  sure  they  look  lik« 
nice  girls." 

"Nice  girls!"  thought  his  sister,  with  a  little 
twinge  of  annoyance;  "I  declare,  I  didn't  know 
I  was  so  proud  of  them.  Well !  it  does  one's  pride 
good  to  get  a  fall  now  and  then." 

"I   am    sorry    to    say,"    continued    Mr.    Whittier, 

"that  I  have  business  at  H ,  which  will  make 

my  visit  to  you  shorter  than  1  intended.  My  plan 
is    now   to    spend    to-morrow   with    you,    and    then 

push  on  to  H ,  leaving  Charles  here,  if  agree* 

able  to  you,  till  my  return." 

"When  I  hope  you  will  spend  some  days  with 
us,  at  least,"  said  Mr.  Grant. 

"I  cannot  do  that,"  answered  Mr.  Whittier; 
"but  now  I've  found  the  way  here,  I  hope  to  come 
again.  You've  no  idea  what  lives  we  business  men 
lead.     We  work,  I  assure  you." 

Mh  Grant  thought  lie  knew  what  work  meant 
but  he  did  not  say  so.     He  only  remarked: 

"  Yet  you  merchants  are  slow  to  retire  from 
business." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Whittier,  "  the  more  a  man  has, 
the  more  he  wants,  I  suppose.  As  for  myself,  I 
hardly  care  to  give  up  my  business  till  Charles  is 
old  enough  to  take  it." 


THE  uncle's  visit.  87 

*'Then  you  don't  intend  to  educate  him?"  said 
Airs.  Grant. 

"No:  Charles  is  no  book-worm.  I  did  intend 
sending  him  to  college,  but  he  was  so  opposed  to 
it  that  I  had  to  give  up  all  thought  of  doing,  so." 

Lucy  and  Arthur  exchanged  astonished  glances. 
In  their  simplicity,  they  had  never  doubted  that  all 
young  people  were  like  themselves.  Their  rever- 
ence for  Charles  received  a  severe  shock,  and  was 
in  danger  of  running  into  the  opposite  extreme.  He 
proved  himself,  however,  a  lively,  intelligent  boy, 
full  of  fun  and  good-humor,  and  very  soon  was  on 
tlie  most  friendly  terms  with  them  all. 

"You'll  like  your  uncle  better  as  you  see  more 
of  him,"  whispered  Mrs.  Grant  to  Lucy,  as  they 
went  together  to  arrange  a  room  for  him. 

"I  don't  like  him  a  bit  now,"  said  Lucy. 

"You  will  like  him  in  time.  He  has  admirable 
qualities  and  is  my  brother,  at  any  rate." 

"  He  doesn't  seem  like  you  at  all,"  said  Lucy. 
"And  I  do  not  believe  I  ever  shall  like  him.  He 
ought  not  to  go  to  finding  fault  with  you  the  min- 
ute he  got  into  the  house.  I'm  sure  it  is  as  much 
his  fault  as  anybody*s  that  we  are  so  poor." 

It  was  long  since  her  mother  had  seen  Lucy  so 
excited.  "  Lucy,  you  don't  seem  like  yourself  at  all. 
What  can  make  you  appear  so  ?  "  she  said  anxiously 
and  tenderly. 


88  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Lucy;  "but  I  don't  think 
anything  goes  just  right  now.  Ever  since  you  said 
I  mustn't  stay  in  my  room  for  fear  of  getting  mora 
cold,  I've  been  very  unhappy.  And  I'm  getting  fret- 
ful again." 

*'  I  did  not  mean  to  deprive  you  of  time  for  your 
devotion,  my  dear  child,"  she  answered. 

"  I  do  try  to  be  gentle  and  kind,"  said  Lucy.  "  I 
hope  you  don't  think  I've  stopped  trying?" 

'*No,  dear;  I  haven't  had  such  a  thought.  You 
have  appeared  as  I  want  you  should,  this  long  time, 
till  just  now.'* 

She  felt  greatly  disturbed,  however.  She  knew 
Lucy  must  be  suffering  under  some  kind  of  nervous 
difficulty,  irritating  and  harassing,  little  as  it  had 
outwardly  displayed  itself. 

"I've  been  cross  to  the  children  lately,"  said 
Lucy.  "It  makes  me  very  unhappy,  but  I  keep 
going  on  so." 

"I  never  call  people  *  cross'  when  they're  not 
well,"  said  Mrs.  Grant.  "And  I  am  sure  you  are 
not  well." 

"I  heard  somebody  coughing  badly  last  night," 
said  Mr.  Whittier  the  next  morning.    "Who  was  it?" 

"It  was  Lucy,"  said  her  mother.  "She  has  had 
a  bad  cough  for  a  number  of  weeks." 

"I  don't  wonder,  in  this  cold  climate,"  he  an- 
ewered.     "Why  don't  you  send  her  somewhere  far- 


THE  uncle's  visit.  89 

ther  south?  You  have  cold,  damp  springs  heres, 
I  believe.  She  ought  to  go  away  before  she  gets 
more  unwelL" 

"The  doctor  said  so,  long  ago,"  said  her  father. 

**Then  why  in  the  world  don't  you  send  her?" 

There  was  an  awkward  silence.  Nobody  wanted 
to  say,  "Because  we  are  poor."  It  seemed  like  an 
appeal  to  his  charities. 

*'  Come,"  said  he,  turning  to  Hatty,  "  suppose  you 
go  home  with  me,  and  let  us  see  if  we  can't  nurse 
you  up." 

*'/  am  not  Lucy.  I'm  only  Hatty,"  she  replied, 
as  soon  as  she  could  recover  from  the  confusion 
into  which  her  thoughts  had  been  thrown. 

"Which  is  Lucy,  then?"  he  asked. 

"She  isn't  here  now,"  said  Arthur;  "she's  the  pret- 
tiest one.     The  one  with  the  brown  eyes." 

His  uncle  looked  at  him  and  laughed,  and  looked 
again,  as  if  he  would  say,  "I've  got  hold  of  a  curi- 
osity now!" 

"So  she's  the  prettiest  one,  is  she?  And  I  sup- 
pose she  has  a  parcel  of  beaux  about  her,  and  ia 
very  anxious  to  wear  becoming  bonnets,  and — " 

"No,  she  isn't  anything  like  such  a  girl  as  that," 
said  Arthur,  indignantly.  "She's  not  at  all  like 
other  girls.  And  she  doesn't  so  much  as  think  of 
beaux,"  he  added  with  infinite  disgust.  His  uncle 
said  no  more,  and  breakfast  over,  he  sat  watching 


90  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

them  from  behind  a  newspaper,  while  they  busied 
themselves  as  usual. 

All  at  once  he  started  up.  "Do  you  keep  chick- 
ens?" he  said,  as  Tom  drew  nigh. 

"We  keep  a  lot,"  said  Tom. 

"Come,  show  them  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Whittier. 
**No,  go  back  the  rest  of  you,"  he  said,  seeing 
Charles  and  Arthur  following. 

Hatty  waited  till  he  was  out  of  sight,  when  she 
boiled  over.  Walking  up  to  John,  who  sat  privately 
brushing  their  uncle's  boots  behind  the  door,  she 
said  in  a  fierce  whisper,  "  I  hate  him." 

"So  do  I,"  returned  John:  "or  I  mean  I  should 
only  it's  wicked." 

"I  can't  help  it  if  it  is  wicked,"  said  Hatty. 
"He  thinks  we're  all  a  pack  of  geese.  I  wouldn't 
brush  his  old  boots ! " 

"I've  a  great  mind  not  to,"  said  John,  stopping. 
"He  only  did  it  to  plague  me,  I  know." 

"Did  what?"  asked  Hatty. 

"Why,  he  came  out  here  before  breakfast,  sort 
of  spying  round,  and  says  he,  '  Where's  the  boy  ? ' 
*What  boy.  Sir?'  says  I.  *  Why,  the  boot-black/ 
says  he.  'What  kind  of  boy  is  that.  Sir?'  says  I; 
a  boy  as  black  as  a  boot  ? '  And  then  he  laughed 
at  me  and  pinched  my  ear:  look,  it's  red  now 
and  I  suppose  he  thought  he  could  make  me  cry; 
but  I  wasn't  going  to  cry  for  Am,  anyhow.     And 


THE    uncle's    visit.  91 

then  says  he,  *  You're  made  of  hickory;  a'n't  you? 
*No,  Sir,'  says  I,  'I  a'n't  made  of  hickory;  I'n: 
made  of  dust.'  *  Who  says  you're  made  of  dust  ? 
says  he,  after  laughing  all  to  himself  ever  so  long 
*The  Bible  says  so,'  says  I:  and  then  he  went  off 
and  left  his  boots;  so  I  s'pose  he  meant  for  me 
to  clean  'em." 

Meanwhile  the  object  of  this  wrath  was  walking 
off  with  Tom  by  the  hand,  engaged,  apparently, 
in  a  diligent  pursuit  of  such  knowledge  as  could 
be  gained  from  an  introduction  to  the  chickens. 

"  You  must  eat  a  great  many  chickens,"  said  Mr. 
Whittier. 

"Oh,  no,  Sir;  father  sends  them  to  market,"  said 
Tom. 

"Well,  you  have  plenty  of  eggs,  at  any  rate,  I 
suppose." 

"  Yes,  Sir.  But  Arthur  sells  all  the  eggs  his  hens 
lay." 

"What  for?" 

"Oh,  he  buys  his  books  with  them." 

"  What  sort  of  books  ?  Robinson  Crusoes  and 
Jack  Halyards?" 

"He's  had  Robinson  Crusoe,  but  I  don't  know 
about  Jack  Halyard.  But  I  didn't  mean  such 
books.  He  doesn't  buy  such  books  as  those.  He 
swaps  for  them." 

"Swaps!"  said  Mr.  Whittier. 


92  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"Yes.  He  gives  a  feller  his  jack-knife,  and  a 
feller  gives  him  a  book — most  generally  old  books. 
But  those  lie  buys  with  his  eggs  are  study-books." 

"  Why  doesn't  your  father  buy  them  for  him  ? " 

"Oh,  he  can't  afford  it!"  said  Tom,  opening  hifl 
eyes  as  wide  as  he  could,  to  take  in  a  view  of  the 
propounder  of  this  rash  question, 

"  Who  washes  your  clothes  ? "  said  his  uncle 
abruptly. 

"Mother,  and  Kebecca,  and  Lucy.  And  Arthur, 
and  John,  they  make  their  bed.  I  shall  make 
mine  as  soon  as  I'm  a  little  bigger.  Arthur  said 
he  wasn't  going  to  have  mother  or  the  girls  make 
his  bed.     They  have  too  much  to  do,  you  see.'* 

"We  a'n't  so  poor  as  we  were,"  he  continued, 
finding  his  uncle  greatly  struck  by  his  remarks, 
"for  a  man  sent  mother  fifty  dollars  at  New- 
Year's." 

"And  what  did  she  do  with  it?** 

"At  first  she  cried.  Then  she  said  it  would  pay 
for  Lucy  to  go  away,  because  the  doctor  said  she 
must  go  somewhere.  And  then  Lucy  begged  her 
to  save  it  for  Arthur  when  he  went  to  college. 
There  was  another  man  wrote  father  a  letter,  bul 
he  didn't  send  him  any  money  " 

"  Perhaps  the  '  man '  did  not  dare  to. 

"Why  not?"  asked  Tom,  innocently. 

"For  fear  your  father  would  be  angry.** 


THE    UNCLES    VISIT.  dS 

*'0h,  my  father,  he  don't  get  angry.  And  I 
don't  believe  that  was  the  reason,  either." 

"Suppose  now  I  should  send  him  some  money; 
would  he  like  it,  think?" 

"Oh,  yes.  Sir,"  said  Tom. 

"Well,  you  needn't  tell  anybody  anything  I've 
asked  you.     And  here's  something  for  you." 

Tom  put  both  hands  behind  him. 

"I  shall  have  to  tell,"  he  said. 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  always  tell  mother  everything.  She 
says  it  keeps  me  out  of  mischief." 

"And  so  you  are  going  to  tell  her  I've  been 
pumping  you  with  all  sorts  of  questions?" 

"I  didn't  know  you  had.  Sir.  I  didn't  know 
you'd  said  anything  naughty." 

"Dear  me,  I've  got  myself  into  a  fix,"  said  Mr. 
Whittier,  looking  round  for  solace  in  his  tribulation 
upon  the  hens  and  chickens,  to  whom  his  visit 
had  proved  so  unprofitable.  "Well,  well,  be  ofi" 
with  you,  child,  and  be  sure  you  don't  forget  a 
word." 

Away  went  Tom,  highly  indignant,  straight  to 
his  mother. 

"I  don't  like  that  man,  and  he  isn't  my  uncle," 
he  shouted. 

"Hush,  hush,  dear,"  said  his  mother. 

"I   can't   hush,  and   I   a'n't  a  going  to,   either,* 


94  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

cried  Tom.  *'He  asked  me  if  jou  ate  chickens j 
and  if  we  ate  eggs;  and  why  you  didn't  buy 
books  for  Arthur;  and  why  you  didn't  send  Lucy 
away;  and  he  said  I  mustn't  tell  a  word  of  it: 
and  when  I  said  I  should  tell  you,  he  said  he'd 
got  into  a  fix,  and  gave  me  a  little  push,  and  said, 
*\Vell,  well,  be  off  with  you,  child.'  And  he  is 
a  naughty,  ugly  man." 

"Tom,"  said  his  mother,  "you  are  only  a  little  boy, 
and  you  make  mistakes  sometimes,  you  know.  You 
mustn't  call  your  uncle  a  naughty  man,  and  get  so 
angry  and  excited.  You  spoke  very  rudely  to  mo- 
ther just  now.  1  am  sure  you  did  not  understand 
your  uncle;  and  now  mind,  you  are  not  to  repeat  a 
word  of  this  to  any  one." 

"Can't  1  tell  Lucy?" 

"  No,  not  Lucy,  nor  anybody.  And  sit  down  here 
till  you  are  a  good  boy." 

"I'm  a  good  boy  now.  I've  been  good  ever  so 
long.     Lucy  says  so.     And  I  don't  like  that  man." 

"  What  has  got  into  you  all  ?'*  said  poor  Mrs.  Grant, 
half  bewildered.  "I  hardly  know  which  way  to  turn 
Tom,  I  didn't  expect  this  of  you.  You  have  been 
such  a  dear,  good  child,  lately." 

"I'm  sorry  I've  troubled  you,  mother.  I'll  try  to 
be  good,"  said  Tom,  throwing  his  arms  around  hei 
neck,  but  instantly  relapsing  into  his  defiant  mood, 
as  he  saw  his  uncle  approaching. 


THE  uncle's  visit.  *        95 

"I  have  made  an  awkward  business  of  it,"  said 
Mr.  Whittier,  "  but  I  had  a  good  end  in  view,  and  I 
hope  you  understand  that  I  did  not  pry  into  your 
affairs  out  of  idle  curiosity.  I  only  wanted  to  find 
out  in  what  way  I  could  De  of  most  use  to  you.  Anc* 
I  know  you  never  would  tell  me  yourself,  you're  sc 
proud,"  he  added,  smiling.  "But  now  about  that 
debt;  let  us  talk  the  matter  over,  and  have  it  set- 
tled; of  course  you  see  the  impropriety  of  my  let- 
ting things  go  as  they  are  now." 

'*  What  do  you  propose  ?  I  don't  quite  under- 
stand," said  Mrs.  Grant.  "  Do  you  want  it  paid 
directly." 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?"  cried  he.  "I  am 
only  asking  of  you,  who  know  Grant  so  much  better 
than  I  do,  how  it  will  answer  to  relinquish  my  claim. 
Would  it  offend  him,  do  you  think?" 

"I  don't  know;  I  shouldn't  use  the  word  'offend, 
exactly.  But  he  might  feel  hurt,  just  at  this  time. 
He  might  fancy — "  she  hesitated,  not  daring  to  fin- 
'sh  her  sentence. 

"  Might  fancy  I  hoped  to  wipe  off  old  scores  with 
mere  money,  I  suppose  you  mean.  Don't  be  afraid 
to  say  it;  1  had  thought  of  that  myself"  He  sat 
eilent  for  a  time;  then  said, 

"Sarah,  you  are  my  own  sister;  we  are  children 
of  one  mother;  you,  at  least,  ought  not  to  be  un- 
willing  that  I  should  help  you  bear  your  burdena 


96  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

I  don't  want  to  do  anything  that  would  revolution 
ize  your  family.  I  only  want  to  make  life  easier  foi 
you,  and  for  your  children,  in  little  ways,  neither 
you  nor  they  will  notice  much.  I  am  ashamed  and 
bitterly  regret  that  I  have  not  been  doing  it  all 
these  years.  How  many  children  did  you  say  there 
were?  Ten?  Well,  1  have  something  to  tell  you 
which  will  interest  you,  I  am  sure.  A  short  time 
before  my  father's  death,  my  eldest  child  was  born. 
A  fine  little  fellow  he  was  I  And  we  called  him  Ar- 
thur. He  lived  to  be  four  years  old,  and  was  the 
perfect  idol  of  his  grandfather,  who  could  never 
bear  him  out  of  his  sight.  He  said  one  day  that 
he  had  laid  aside  a  small  sum  of  money  for  your 
first-born,  expecting  it  to  be  a  boy  and  his  own 
namesake ;  but  after  waiting  several  years,  and  find- 
ing your  children  were  all  girls,  he  made  it  over  to 
my  little  Arthur.  I  was  poor  then — I  know  what 
poverty  means — and  was  not  sorry  to  know  that 
means  were  thus  provided  for  his  future  education 
But  God  had  something  better  in  store  for  my  child, 
and  took  him  from  me  almost  without  warning.  It 
was  a  heavy  blow,  but  it  did  not  bring  me  to  ray- 
self  1  was  immersed  in  business,  and  struggling 
along  from  day  to  day,  and  had  hardly  time  to 
think  or  feel.  Poverty  spoiled  and  soured  me,  and 
I  grew  hard  and  cold  under  its  petty  discipline 
Well !  that  money  of  my  little  child  has  been  lying 


THE    uncle's    visit.  97 

ever  since  in  the  Savings*  Bank  where  it  was  first 
placed.  I  never  could  bear  to  touch,  or  even  think 
of  it.  Now  let  our  father's  original  wish  be  grati- 
fied in  its  disposal.  You  can  see  for  yourself  that  it 
properly  belongs  to  your  son,  who  bears  his  name." 
Mrs.  Grant  could  with  difficulty  control  herself 
during  this  recital.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  hand 
of  God  was  in  the  matter,  and  that  He  had  Ar- 
thur's interests  even  more  at  heart  than  she  had 
herself  She  went  into  her  room,  and  thanked  Him 
on  her  knees;  how  fervently,  only  a  mother  can 
understand. 


CHAPTER     VIII. 


NEW  SCENES  AND  NEW  FRIENDS. 


T  was  decided,  at  last,  that  Lucy  should  re 
turn  home  with  her  uncle.  He  would  lis. 
ten  to  not  one  of  the  many  objections 
urged  against  it  by  Lucy  herself,  who 
dared  not,  after  all,  confide  to  him  her  chief  ground 
of  hesitation.  This  was  a  dread  of  proving  an  un- 
welcome guest  to  her  unknown  aunt.  She  shrank 
from  the  bare  thought  of  thus  thrusting  herself,  as 
she  termed  it,  into  a  family  where  all  were  com- 
parative strangers.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  she 
was  tempted  to  yield  to  the  solicitations  of  her  pa- 
rents, whose  anxiety  in  regard  to  her  health  made 
them  blind  to  other  considerations, 

** Never  mind  about  her  wardrobe,"  said  her  uncle; 
**  everything   she   needs   can  be   easily  provided  in 
New  York." 
There  was  time,  however,  during  his  week's  ab 


NEW    SCENES    AND    NEW    FRIENDS.  99 

Bence,  to  make  some  necessary  additions  to  this  very 
simple,  very  scanty  stock;  and  everybody's  energies 
were,  for  the  time,  concentrated  on  this  important 
point.  Amid  the  bustle  and  labor  of  this  week, 
Lucy  hardly  realized  that  so  great  an  event  as  sep- 
aration from  all  she  loved  was  before  her;  and  when 
her  uncle  returned,  announcing  his  speedy  departure, 
her  heart  failed  her. 

*'  Don't  make  me  go,  dear  mother,"  she  said,  tak- 
ing her  mother  aside.     "Please  let  me  stay!" 

"  Dear  child,  I  wish  you  could ! "  said  the  poor 
mother,  who  at  this  moment  forgot  all  her  secret 
purposes  of  self-control  and  propriety.  "I  wish  I 
dared  keep  you!" 

" I  shan't  have  a  happy  moment  away  from  you," 
pleaded  Lucy. 

*'But,  my  dear  Lucy,  you  will  find  God  as  truly 
there,  as  He  is  here.  And  He  is  better  than  many 
mothers." 

Lucy  smiled  through  her  tears;  and  then  she  tried 
to  thank  her  mother  for  all  her  dear  love  and  pa- 
tience, and  to  tell  her  how  she  should  think  of  her 
all  the  time,  every  moment;  but  she  could  not. 
Her  uncle  was  waiting;  she  ran  out,  kissed  them 
all  over  and  over  again,  and  was  gone.  They  stood 
looking  out  after  her,  all  in  tears,  for  this  was  the 
first  parting  they  had  ever  known;  and  who  could 
Bay  what  should  befall  between  the  parting  and  the 


100  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

meeting?  All  were  in  tears;  only  Arthur  stood  lean 
ing  quietly  against  the  side  of  the  door,  looking  pale 
but  composed.  He  thought  he  was  getting  too  old 
to  cry  now;  so  he  stood  there,  looking  down  the 
road,  till  he  found  himself  alone.  Then  he  went 
up  to  his  room,  bolted  his  door,  and  stretching  forth 
his  arms,  as  if  to  reach  and  recall  her,  he  cried, 
**0  Lucy!  Lucy!" 

No  other  word  escaped  the  brave  young  heart,  that 
now  felt  itself  so  lonely,  so  deserted;  and  in  a  very 
little  time  he  went  down,  and  about  his  usual  morn- 
ing tasks.  And  when  Hatty  afterwards  wrote  to 
Lucy,  she  said,  *'  We  all  cried,  but  just  Arthur,"  and 
marvelled  as  she  wrote,  and  then  forgot  it.  But  his 
mother  saw  that  from  this  day  Arthur  was,  if  possi- 
ble, more  gentle,  more  manly  than  ever,  and  that 
thought  for  her  never  left  him.  And  in  how  many 
ways  a  dutiful,  affectionate  boy  can  lighten  and 
smooth  his  mother's  lot ! 

At  the  close  of  the  third  day  the  travellers  reached 
their  journey's  end,  and  Lucy  found  herself  kindly, 
if  not  warmly  welcomed  by  her  aunt  and  cousin. 
She  was  heartily  glad  to  find  herself  soon  advised  to 
retire  for  the  night,  for  she  felt  not  only  weary,  but 
embarrassed  and  annoyed.  Before  leaving  home,  sue!) 
very  special  additions  had  been  made  to  her  ward- 
robe,  that  she  had  only  been  afraid  of  being  over 
dressed.     But  one  glance  at  Helen  had  shown   hei 


NEW    SCENES    AND    NEW    FRIENDS.  ICl 

the  contrast  between  her  own  country  style  and  that 
of  the  city. 

"They  will  be  ashamed  of  me,  I  am  sure,"  she 
said  to  herself,  "and  I  ought  not  to  have  come  here, 
dressed  so." 

She  had  read  of  "  country  cousins,"  whose  air,  and 
speech,  and  raimeut  all  conspired  to  make  their  city 
friends  blush  for  very  shame;  and  how  did  she  know 
that  she  had  not  fallen  into  the  same  error  ?  She  sat 
down  and  reflected  a  little;  and  after  some  few  trou- 
bled, uneasy  thoughts,  came  to  a  conclusion  that 
quite  restored  her  peace. 

"1  am  dressed  as  well  as  father  could  afford;  I 
ought  not  to  be  ashamed  then.  And  it  would  be 
wrong  and  silly  to  try  to  do  anything  else.  And  if 
my  aunt  is  annoyed,  I  shall  be  very,  very  sorry ;  but 
I  must  try  to  bear  that  patiently."  She  opened  her 
little  Bible,  and  her  eye  fell  upon  the  passage  begin- 
ning, "  Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field,"  and  she  read 
on  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  "  Yes,"  it  seemed  to 
say,  "God  knows  that  you  have  need  of  clothing  as 
well  as  the  lilies  of  the  field;  and  all  you  have  to  do 
is  just  to  wear,  as  the  flowers  do,  the  dress  He  gives 
you."  And  the  meek  and  quiet  spirit  with  which 
she  took  the  lesson  home,  became  as  an  ornament  of 
grace  about  her  neck,  which  many  a  well-adorned 
maiden  lacked. 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Whittier  was  subjected  to  a  storm 


102  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

— if  one  may  use  so  liarsh  an  epithet — of  questions 
of  every  possible  form  and  intent. 

"How  came  you  to  bring  my  cousin?"  Helen 
asked  half  a  dozen  times,  edging  in  her  question  at 
every  available  point,  with  a  skill  worthy  of  her  sex. 

**  I  brought  her  on  account  of  her  health,"  her  fa- 
ther at  last  answered.  "She  has  a  bad  cough,  and 
has  been  advised  .to  try  change  of  air;  and  I  want 
you  to  do  all  you  can  for  her  pleasure  and  comfoi-t." 

"  What  sort  of  a  girl  is  she  ?  " 

"A  very  good  sort  of  a  girl,  I  believe." 

"Then  I  sha'n't  like  her  at  all,"  said  Helen,  de- 
cidedly.    "  I  don't  like  '  good  sort  of  people.'  '* 

"  Well,  then,  if  you  prefer  bad  sort  of  people,  I  dare 
8ay  you  will  be  suited.  There  are  plenty  of  such  in 
this  world." 

"  But,  papa,  can't  you  tell  me  anything  about  her  ? 
Has  she  left  school  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  my  dear,  I  do  not  know.  I  am  not  sure 
she  has  ever  attended  school.  And  in  the  one  day 
I  spent  in  the  house,  I  could  not  learn  the  individual 
character  and  history  of  ten  children." 

"Ten!"  cried  Helen;  "have  I  ten  cousins?  0 
papa,  among  so  many  there  must  be  some  I  should 
like.     Charles,  don't  you  know  cousin  Lucy  ?  '* 

"Oh,  she's  a  nice  girl  enough,"  said  Charles, 
"Makes  first-rate  pies  and  all  that,  and  is  quite  ac 
oracle  among  them.     Eather  good,  I  fancy." 


NEW    SCENES    AND    NEW    FRIENDS.  lOS 

"Tm  afraid  I  shan't  like  her.  Mamma,  do  peoplu 
from  the  country  always  have  shopping  to  do  ?  And 
don't  they  want  to  be  on  the  go  the  whole  time,  to 
see  what  they  can  see  ?  " 

"  There  isn't  the  least  touch  of  selfishness  about  my 
little  daughter,  is  there  ?  "  asked  her  father,  drawing 
her  down  upon  his  knee. 

Helen  colored. 

*'  Well,  papa,  you  know  how  I  dislike  sight-seeing!' 

*'  But  you  do  not  dislike  doing  a  kind  act,  I  hope. 
Now  your  cousin  has  spent  her  whole  life  in  the 
country.  Everything  here  will  be  new  to  her.  She 
is  in  delicate  health,  owing,  unless  I  greatly  mistake, 
to  constant  confinement  to  those  little  children;  and 
it  is  my  opinion  she  needs  rest  and  amusement  far 
more  than  a  doctor.  Her  mother  told  me  how  she 
had  been  tied  hand  and  foot  to  all  sorts  of  disagree- 
ables.    The  only  wonder  is,  the  child  isn't  spoiled." 

'*!  wonder  how  old  she  is,"  said  Helen. 

*'  Let  me  see ;  she  must  be  seventeen,  I  think,  more 
or  less." 

*'But,  papa,  haven't  you  talked  with  her  on  the 
journey  ?  Don't  you  know  in  the  least  what  she  is 
like?" 

Her  father  laughed,  and  shook  his  head  at  her, 
and  turned  his  attention  to  her  mother. 

"I'm  afraid  the  world  has  gone  pretty  hardly  with 
them  all,"  he  said.     "  Yet  they  seem  a  cheerful  set 


104  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

Mr.  Grant  still  takes  a  rather  melancholy  view  ol 
life,  yet  it  is  wonderful  how  much  religion  has  done 
for  him  in  that  respect.  He  is  by  no  means  the 
gloomy  man  he  was.  And  the  children  seem  more 
like  their  mother.  I  found  it  not  so  easy  a  matter  tc 
arrange  about  that  debt  as  I  fancied  it  would  be.  AIJ 
I  can  do  at  present,  is  just  to  edge  along  by  degrees, 
relieving  them  at  this  point  and  that,  in  a  quiet  way, 
and  by  and  by  I  may  venture  farther." 

"Is  Mr.  Grant  so  proud,  then?"  asked  Mrs.  Whittier 

"Not  that  alone:  I  think,  however,  as  things  are, 
it  would  not  do  to  press  him  too  hard.  My  sister 
hinted  he  might  fancy  I  hoped  to  wipe  out  past  of- 
fenses with  money.  I  am  sure  she  wished  me  to  use 
caution.  The  fact  is.  Grant  is  peculiar ;  one  must  be 
wary  in  dealing  with  him.  But  he  is  a  good  man ;  a 
thoroughly  upright,  conscientious  one." 

Mrs.  Whittier  mused  awhile  in  silence.  "I  don't 
know  how  I  should  feel,"  she  said,  "  but  it  does  seem 
to  me  I  could  accept  any  thing  from  an  own 
brother — for  the  sake  of  the  children,  at  least;  par- 
ticularly if  they  are  obliged  to  become  mere  household 
drudges,  as  you  say  this  Lucy  has  been.*' 

*♦  But  Grant  is  not  my  own  brother,  you  know. 
And  it  is  not  this  debt  alone  that  has  kept  them 
down  The  farm  is  small  and  unproductive;  and 
then  they  have  had  such  a  family!  I  was  all  the 
iime  afraid  I  should  step  on  some  of  them ;  there 


NEW    SCENES    AND    NEW    FRIENDS.  105 

were  always  two  or  three  crawling  round  on  the 
floor." 

"  Well,  why  don*t  you  buy  a  larger  farm,  then  '^ " 

"Who?  II  Why  don't  I  buy  the  sun  or  the 
moon  ! " 

"But  I  am  not  jesting.  If  this  farm  of  your 
brother's  is  too  small,  why  don't  you  buy  a  larger 
one  and  settle  them  on  it  ?  " 

"Yes,  papa,"  said  Helen,  "I  wish  you  would." 

"  Women  know  a  vast  deal  about  business,  to  be 
sure,"  said  Mr.  Whittier,  leaning  back  in  his  chair, 
and  laughing.  "It's  well  they  have  somebody  to 
look  out  for  them." 

"But  you  have  not  answered  me  yet,"  said  his 
wife. 

"Well,  then,  my  dear,  I  will  give  you  one  reason 
out  of  many  equally  as  good:  I  can't  afford  it." 

She  smiled,  and  looked  incredulous. 

"In  the  next  place,  then,  it  would  not  be  the 
best  thing  for  them.  In  many  little  ways,  less  ap- 
parent and  therefore  less  painful  to  them,  I  can 
make  their  future  life  more  agreeable  than  it  has 
been.  For  instance,  should  this  Lucy  prove  worthy 
of  it,  we  can  give  her  a  year  or  two  of  such  educa- 
tion as  of  course  she  needs;  then,  as  the  other  chil- 
dren come  on,  I  can  do  the  same  for  them;  or  some- 
thing of  the  sort;  no  matter  what,  so  it  is  for  their 
good." 


106  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"But,  meanwhile,  are  you  sure  of  living  as  long 
as  they?" 

"If  I  do  not,  perhaps  you  will;  and  I  could  not 
leave  then-  in  better  hands.  And  when  we  arc 
gone,  Charles  and  Helen  will  do  what  we  leave 
undone." 

All  were  silent  for  a  season.  At  length  Mrs. 
Whittier  said, 

"I  do  not  mean  to  press  you  too  far;  I  only  was 
moved  to  say  what  I  have  done,  by  the  appearance 
of  that  poor  child.  Her  dress  showed  so  plainly 
that  life  has,  as  you  say,  gone  hardly  with  them." 

"Why,  was  she  not  properly  dressed?"  cried 
Mr.  Whittier. 

"Yes,  certainly;  very  properly.  I  was  relieved 
to  see  no  vulgar  attempt  at  display  in  her;  yet 
grieved,  too,  to  think  that  your  sister's  child  should 
take  this  long  journey,  in  the  depth  of  winter,  so 
scantily  and  poorly  clothed.  It  made  me  ashamed 
of  the  house  I  live  in,  and  of  the  garments  1  wear." 

"You  women  see  everything,"  returned  her  hus- 
band. "I  don't  know  what  art  you  use,  but  some- 
how at  a  single  glance  you  read  a  whole  history  in 
a  faded  shawl." 

"  I  read  more  that  one  in  that  sweet  girl's  dress," 
said  Mrs.  Whittier.  "And  more  than  one  in  her 
face,  too  I  am  sure,  though  I  have  hardly  heard 
her  speak  a  word,  that,  young  as  she  is,  she  hae[ 


NEW    SCENES    AND    NEW    FRIENDS.  10? 

passed  through  trials  such  as  me  only  read  aboui 
in  books." 

"Come,  come,  don't  let  us  get  excited  about  it,' 
said  her  husband,  trying  to  shake  off  the  feelings 
of  remorse  that  crept  through  his  whole  frame. 

"I  am  not  excited  more  than  I  always  am  when 
I  see  trouble  I  ought  to  have  shared  and  alleviated." 

"But  why  have  you  let  them  stay  poor  so  long, 
papa  ? "  asked  Helen  eagerly.  Her  mother  shook 
her  head;  Helen  did  not  observe  it,  and  pressed 
closer  to  her  father,  looking  up  into  his  face  with 
a  flushed  cheek.  He  looked  down  upon  it  silently 
a  moment. 

"  I  was  not  always  a  Christian,  Helen,"  he  said. 

She  asked  no  more  that  night.  But  her  heart 
yearned  already  to  love  her  yet  unknown  cousin; 
and  every  thought  of  self  vanished  before  those 
her  mother's  words  had  excited. 

"I'll  do  all  I  can  to  amuse  her,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "I'll  go  out  shopping  with  her,  and  I'll 
get  books  for  her  to  read,  and  worsted- work ;  but 
perhaps  she  isn't  fond  of  reading:  I  dare  say  she 
isn't  on  the  whole.  Well!  then  I  must  think  of 
something  else,  that's  all.'* 

When  Lucy  rose  next  morning,  a  little  twinge 
of  pain,  as  she  put  on  her  dress,  reminded  her  of 
her  last  evening's  reflections  upon  it.  But  it  was 
but    for    a    moment,    and   when    she    entered    the 


108  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

dining-room,  Helen's  warm  greeting  made  her  feel 
quite  at  ease  again.  Her  aunt  met  her  affection^ 
ately  too,  and  Lucy  reproved  herself  for  having 
fancied  thorn  not  cordial  at  the  outset.  Seated  at 
the  table,  with  a  huge  paper  in  its  hands,  was  a 
little  figure  she  had  not  seen  before. 

*'  Miss  Prigott !  this  is  my  niece,"  said  her  aunt, 
leading  Lucy  towards  the  lady,  who,  on  hearing 
herself  addressed,  sprang  briskly  from  her  seat,  and 
descended  upon  them  both  with  ardor  and  warmth 
enough  for  a  dozen  such  meetings.  Lucy  felt 
herself  more  uncomfortable  under  these  embraces 
than  she  could  understand,  for  they  certainly  seemed 
as  sincere  as  they  were  vivacious. 

"I  am  charmed  to  see  you,  my  dear,"  she  said, 
her  little  quick  eyes  running  all  over  Lucy  in  a 
twinkling,  "  and  it  is  an  unexpected  pleasure  to 
see  you  looking  so  robust  and  rosy.  They  all 
tried  to  persuade  me  you  were  in  delicate  health. 
But  I  knew  how  it  was.  I  have  not  lived  to  be 
fifty  years  of  age  to  no  purpose.  Young  people 
get  sick  of  the  country,  and  pine  for  the  city 
Yes,  yes,  I  know." 

"I  was  not  sick  of  it,"  said  Lucy. 

"Ohl  of  course  not,  of  course  not,"  said  Miss 
Prigott,  waving  her  hand  as  a  final  waive  to  the 
subject.  They  seated  themselves  at  the  table,  and 
Lucy  felt  the  little  eyes  running  over  her  again 


NEW    SCENES    AND    NEW    FRIENDS.  109 

Kow  she  felt  them  on  her  face,  now  on  her  dress. 
now  on  the  hand  in  which  the  silver  fork  trembled 

*'Not   accustomed    to   a   silver   fork,    I  presume,' 
eaid  Miss  Frigott,  sympathizingly. 

Lucy  answered,  this  time  without  embarrassment, 
that  she  was  not. 

"That's  right,  my  dear;  always  speak  the  truth, 
cost  what  it  may." 

*'  If  my  cheeks  burn  as  I  do  myself,  I  don't  won 
der  she  calls  me  rosy,"  thought  Lucy. 

After  breakfast  Helen  drew  her  aside,  and  whis 
pered,  "  You  mustn't  mind  Miss  Prigott;  she's  a  good 
little  soul  enough  when  one  gets  used  to  her,  but 
hard  to  bear  at  first.  Just  let  her  see  you  don't  care 
for  her,  and  she'll  let  you  alone,  in  time.'* 

"But  I  do  care  for  her,"  said  Lucy. 

"  I  shall  just  keep  you  out  of  her  way,  then.  She 
does  not  always  live  here;  at  present  she  is  waiting 
to  find  a  new  boarding-house.  She  was  burned  out 
of  the  last  one,  and  came  right  here.  You  mustn't 
laugh  at  her;  mamma  won't  like  that'* 

"I  sha'n't  wish  to  laugh  at  her." 

"Why,  don't  you  laugh  at  any  thing?  Are  you 
BO  very  grave  and  solemn  always  as  you  are  now  ? ' 

Lucy  laughed. 

•*You  can't  suppose  that  what  was  said  at  break 
fiast  proved  very  enlivening  to  my  spirits,"  she  said 

**Tt  was  too  bad,  I  know." 


no  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"  Oh !  it  is  all  over  now :  I  was  only  a  little  taken 
off  my  guard.  You  know  I  have  always  lived  at 
home,  and  have  seen  nothing  of  the  world.  I  dare 
say  it  is  full  of  strange  people." 

"I  dare  say  it  is,"  said  Helen  *  but  I  know  aa 
little  of  it  almost  as  you  do.  But  come;  I  always 
take  a  long  walk  after  breakfast;  will  you  go  with 
me  ?  " 

Lucy  hesitated  a  moment. 

"Sha'n't  you  feel  a  little  ashamed  to  be  seen  in 
the  streets  with  a  country  girl?"  she  asked,  half 
playfully,  yet  half  in  earnest. 

"Nonsense!"  said  Helen  pleasantly;  and  in  a  few 
minutes  they  were  in  the  open  air,  and  Lucy  felt 
herself  one  of  the  busy  crowd  already  thronging  the 
streets.  The  noise  confused  her;  she  shrank  from 
the  passers-by  as  they  pressed  upon  her,  and  of  all 
the  attractions  with  which  the  shop- windows  were 
filled,  she  observed  nothing.  Helen  hurried  her 
along,  directing  her  attention  to  this  and  that,  till 
at  last,  stopping  short,  she  asked,  *'Do  you  like  to 
walk  in  such  a  crowd  ?  " 

"  No,  I  do  not,  indeed.     Can't  we  get  out  ol  it  r " 

"I  think  we  shall  agree  very  well,"  said  Hel(;n. 
"1  hate  a  crowd."  And  with  this  bond  of  sympathy 
already  established,  they  walked  home,  mutually 
pleased  and  satisfied. 


CHAPTER   IX. 


A  QLIMF8E  AT  *' SOCIETY.** 


UCY  was  fatigued  by  her  walk,  and  looked 
pale  and  languid.     She  sat   down  in   the 
first  chair  she  saw  on  her  entrance,  quite 
out  of  breath. 
"  I  am  afraid  we  walked  too  far,"  said  Helen.     "  I 
did  not  know  you  had  so  little  strength." 

"I  am  not  accustomed  to  walking  much,"  said 
Lucy. 

"But  exercise  is  good  for  everybody,  isn't  it?" 
"Oh,   I   had   exercise   enough   running   after   the 
children,    and    all    that;    but    not    much    time    for 
walking.      But   don't  wait  for   me.      I   shall  be  as 
well  as  ever,  in  a  minute." 

Helen  went  to  tell  her  mother  how  feeble  Lucy 
was;  and  as  soon  as  she  was  out  of  sight,  the 
Httle  head  of  Miss  Prigott  appeared  peeping  out 
iV'>iu   the  <ioor  of  an  adjoining  roon>. 


112  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"  What,  idling  in  the  morning !  '*  she  cried.  *'  Oh 
my  love,  that  is  a  sad  way  of  beginning  the  day. 
If  I  had  wasted  my  youth  in  that  style,  I  do  not 
know  what  I  should  be  in  my  age.  There  is  noth 
ing  so  becoming  in  young  people  as  industry. 

Lucy  made  a  great  effort  to  control  herself,  bul 
did  not  succeed  so  far  as  to  venture  on  a  reply. 
Miss  Prigott  therefore  stepped  forth  into  the  hall 
and  confronted  her  with  a  mixture  of  coolness  and 
excitement  in  her  manner,  to  which  no  descrip- 
tion could  do  justice.  Lucy's  pale  cheeks  glowed 
under  it. 

"A  little  temper,"  said  Miss  Prigott.  **I  regret 
it,  my  dear." 

"I  was  not  angry,"  said  Lucy,  gathering  cour 
age.     "I  was  hurt  at  being  misunderstood." 

"Yes,  yes;  that's  the  cant  phrase  of  young  misses, 
nobody  understands  them.  They're  very  intricate 
indeed." 

Lucy  looked  down  and  was  silent.  Her  heart 
only  was  allowed  to  speak,  and  this  time  to  God. 
It  said,  "Oh,  make  me  patient!  Oh,  make  me 
patient!"  and  felt  already  grieved  that  it  had  not 
been  so  from  the  outset. 

"I  am  your  true  friend,"  continued  Miss  Prigott; 
"  the  true  friend  of  the  young  and  inexperienced. 
And  I  am  sure  I  can  be  of  great  service  to  you 
if  you  will  allow  it," 


118 


At  this  moment  Helen  appeared  with  her  mo- 
ther, and  by  them  Lucy  was  b(jrne  off  without 
ceremony,  and  made  to  lie  down.  Miss  Prigott 
looked  after  their  retreating  figures  with  what  she 
called  regret;  and  far  be  it  from  us  to  assign  to 
her  emotions  a  harsher  name. 

"Ther^i  they  go,"  she  ejaculated,  "one  to  be 
spoiled  and  two  to  be  fooled.  It  is  a  truly  melan- 
choly  spectacle."  And  she  returned  to  her  room, 
and  reflected  on  life,  and  said  it  was  a  dream. 

A  couch  had  been  placed  in  Lucy's  room  during 
her  interview  with  Miss  Prigott,  and  both  her  aunt 
and  Helen  busied  themselves  in  making  her  com 
fortable  upon  it.  She  felt  ashamed  of  herself  foi 
being  unwell,  but  the  shame  brought  no  strength 
with  it.  They  left  her  alone,  with  books  within 
reach,  and  she  lay  still  upon  her  pillow  and  looked 
about  the  large  pleasant  room,  at  the  pretty  taste 
ful  furniture,  the  friendly  fire,  the  pictures  on  the 
wall. 

"Now,  if  I  had  some  of  them  here,  I  should  be 
perfectly  happy,"  she  thought.  "  If  dear  mother 
could  see  me,  how  relieved  and  thankful  she  would 
be !  And  if  I  only  had  Arthur  here  1  Dear  Ar- 
thur! With  all  these  books,  and  this  nice  fire, 
and  this  quiet  room,  what  would  he  say?"  She 
smiled  at  the  thought,  it  was  so  very  pleasant, 
and  then  sighed.     At  the   bottom  of  the  sigh    laj 


114  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

Miss  Prigott,  but  her  little  figure  floated  off  upon 
it,  and  the  image  of  mother,  and  Arthur,  and  the 
baby,  came  back  again,  and  hovered  around  her, 
and  would  let  no  other  intrude. 

"  How  soundly  you  sleep ! "  said  a  voice  near  her. 

She  started.     "  Have  I  been  asleep  ? "  she   cried. 

"Only  four  hours,"  said  Helen,  laughing. 

"Oh,  why  didn't  you  call  me?  I  am  ashamed 
of  myself  for  sleeping  so!  But  I  was  very  tired, 
and  on  the  journey  I  slept  very  little." 

**Are  you  quite  rested  now?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  feel  like  a  new  creature." 

"Who  is  this  'Arthur'  you  talk  about  in  your 
sleep?"  asked  Helen,  archly. 

"My  brother;  but' did  I  talk  about  him?" 

"Oh  yes,  and  1  was  afraid  it  was  some  young 
gentleman. 

"Why,  I  am  not  yet  sixteen;  and  do  you  sup- 
pose I  am  so  silly  as  that?" 

"  Not  sixteen,  and  so  tall !  Why,  Lucy !  And 
as  to  being  silly,  all  girls  are  silly.  I  get  tired 
and  sick  of  their  talk  about  lovers  and  such 
things." 

"You  won't  hear  such  talk  from  me,"  said  Lucy 
springing  up,  and  preparing  to  arrange  her  hair; 
"for  I  neither  know  nor  care  anything  about  the 
Bcience." 

"Tto  verv  glad,"  said  Helen, 


A    GLIMPSE    AT    "SOCIETY."  115 

And  now  there  was  another  bond  of  sympathy 
between  them. 

"When  shall  you  be  sixteen?"  continued  Helen. 

"Let  me  see.  What  day  of  the  month  is  it? 
the  fifteenth?  Well,  I  i^luill  be  sixteen  on  the 
nineteenth." 

*'  So  soon !  We'll  celebrate  it,  then.  Did  you 
read  before  you  fell  asleep?" 

"No,  I'm  saving  that  pleasure  until  I've  written 
home.     I  must  write  as  soon  as  I'm  dressed." 

"You  won't  have  time  until  after  dinner;  din- 
ner is  all  ready  now." 

"Dear  me!  why  didn't  you  tell  me,  and  I  would 
have  made  more  haste."  She  flew  about  the  room 
looking  for  this  and  that,  and  dressed  with  a  speed 
and  vigor  quite  opposed  to  the  languor  of  tha 
morning. 

"  I  advise  you  not  to  fly  round  in  that  style  be- 
fore Miss  Prigott,"  said  Helen.  "She'll  think  you 
were  making-believe  sick  this  morning." 

"  She  thinks  so  now,"  said  Lucy,  stopping  short. 
"1  begin  to  think  myself  that  she  was  right."  On 
reaching  the  dining-room,  Lucy  found  them  all  await 
ing  her,  and  apologized  for  the  delay  she  had  caused. 

"You  look  quite  refreshed,"  said  her  aunt.  "J 
hope  you  feel  so." 

Lucy  assured  her  that  this  was  the  case.  Miss 
Prigott  maintained  an  ominous  silence. 


116  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"  How  have  you  amused  yourself  this  morning  ? 
asked  her  uncle. 

"To  tell  the  truth,  in  sleeping,"  said  Lucy:  "1 
was  very  tired.     But  I  sha'n't  do  so  again." 

"I  hope  they  provided  you  with  books?" 

"Yes,  Sir;  but  I  did  not  read.  I  fell  asleep  aa 
soon  as  I  returned  from  ray  walk." 

"Not  fond  of  reading,"  said  Miss  Prigott,  men- 
tally. Her  little  eyes  ran  and  told  the  thought 
forthwith. 

"Yes,  I  am  very  fond  of  it,"  said  Lucy;  "but 
to-day  I  was  so  tired !  And  seeing  so  many  books 
I  had  been  longing  to  read,  and  knowing  I  had 
time  to  read  them,  I  just  did  nothing." 

"Young  people  should  be  methodical,"  said  Miss 
Prigott 

"Lucy  sha'n't  be  methodical,  or  anything  else 
she  doesn't  like,  while  she  is  here,"  said  her  uncle. 

"  Oh  yes,  this  is  Liberty  Hall,"  said  Miss  Prigott. 

Mr.  Whittier  looked  at  her,  and  was  tempted 
to  say,  "I  should  think  you  thought  it  so,  by  the 
way  you  visit  it."  But  between  a  touch  of  hin 
wife*8  foot,  under  the  table,  and  certain  prudential 
forces  of  his  own  he  forbore. 

As  soon  as  dinner  was  over,  Lucy  began  her 
letter  home;  but  there  were  so  many  things  to  tell, 
that  she  was  surprised  by  a  summons  to  tea  before 
it  was   half  done.     While   she  was   thus   occupied, 


A   GLIMPSE    AT    "SOCIETY."  117 

her  aunt,  Helen,  and  Miss  Prigott,  sat  together  at 
their  work.  "Lucy  seems  like  a  very  sweet,  in- 
telligent girl,"  said  Mrs.  Whittier.  "Don't  you 
think  so,  Miss  Prigott?" 

"I  am  a  close  student  of  human  nature,"  said 
Miss  Prigott,  oracularly. 

"I'm  sure  I  like  her  very  much,"  said  Helen 
"  She  is  different  from  other  girls." 

"  Yes,  very  fresh  and  simple,"  said  Mrs.  Whittier 

"Of  course,  coming  from  the  country,"  said  Miss 
Prigott. 

"Not  neces*wirily.  Some  young  people  are  as 
full  of  pretension  as  possible,  who  have  never 
breathed  other  than  country  air.  Everything  de- 
pends on  education.  Or  rather,  I  should  say,  a 
great  deal  depends  upon  it." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  simplicity  is  a  matter 
of  knowledge  ?  "  asked  Miss  Prigott. 

"  Oh !  I  am  no  metaphysician.  I  won't  argue 
the  matter  with  you." 

"I  always  thought  simplicity  an  unconscious 
virtue.  It  is  a  new  idea  to  me  that  I  can  educate 
myself  into  it." 

"But  I  did  not  say  you  could,  I  believe,"  said 
Mrs.  Whittier,  to  whom  the  idea  of  old  ^lisa 
Prigott  trying  to  be  simple,  proved  ludicrous  "I 
must  find  what  Fenelon  says  on  the  subject  for 
you  to  read." 


118  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"I  don't  read  French,"  said  Miss  Prigott  drily. 

"I  ask  your  pardon.     1  thought  you  read  every 
thing." 

"Fifty  years  ago,  young  people  were  taught 
more  useful  things  than  in  these  days." 

"For  instance,  to  embroider  on  satiuj"  said  Helen, 
mischievously. 

Miss  Prigott  was  displeased ;  but  went  on :  "  Pray, 
if  I  may  ask,  how  did  you  discover  Miss  Lucy's 
•sweetness,  and  intelligence,  and  simplicity?'  For 
she  has  hardly  honored  us  an  hour  with  her .  so- 
ciety." 

Mrs.  Whittier  smiled.  "7  am  a  close  student 
too,"  she  said.  "  But,  of  course,  I  am  not  strenuous 
in  an  opinion  so  hastily  formed.  But  I  must  say 
that  thus  far  I  have  been  very  agreeably  impressed 
by  all  I  have  seen." 

"What  do  you  think  of  that?"  asked  Miss 
Prigott,  abruptly,  and  presenting  for  inspection  a 
muslin  collar,  in  process  of  embroidery. 

"I  think  it  very  pretty.  Did  you  learn  this  sort 
of  work  at  Miss  Burton's  school?" 

"Yes,  yes:  that  was  a  school  where  something 
was  taught  worth  learning.  And  for  an  old  wo- 
man, I  think  I  should  not  blush  at  such  work  ai 
that." 

"I  hope  you'll  give  it  to  me  when  it  is  done,' 
said  Helen. 


A   GLIMPSE    AT    "SOCIETY."  119 

**No,  it  is  for  your  cousin." 

Helen  and  her  mother  looked  at  each  other,  and 
•irniled. 

"That  is  really  kind,"  said  Mrs.  Whittier. 

"When  girls  idle  about  all  day,  they  need  some 
one  to  care  for  them,"  returned  Miss  Prigott. 

'*I  do  believe  you  like  Lucy,  after  all,"  said 
Helen.     "And  you  said  you  didn't." 

"I  said  nothing  of  the  sort.  Nor  have  I  said  I 
like  her,  either.  But  I  suppose  I  can  show  her  an 
act  of  Christian  kindness  ?  " 

"I'm  sure  Lucy  never  had  such  a  collar  as 
that,"  continued  Helen.  "And  you  never  made 
one  for  me.  I  feel  really  hurt.  But  I  suppose 
you  are  waiting  for  me  to  arrive  at  years  of  dis 
cretion,  as  Lucy  has  done.  Mamma!  Lucy  will 
be  sixteen  in  a  few  days." 

"It  pains  me  to  see  a  young  woman  live  so 
many  years  in  this  world  in  thoughtlessness  and 
irreligion,"  said  Miss  Prigott. 

"Bat  you  do  not  know  that  Lucy  is  irreligious, 
said  Mrs,  Whittier. 

"I  do  not  hnoio  that  she  is;  but  I  hardly  doubt 
it" 

*'My  dear  Miss  Prigott!  She  has  not  spent  a 
whole  day  under  this  roof" 

"That  is  true,  but  my  opinions  are  not  formed 
more    hastily    than    your    own.      Here    you    have 


120  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

been  making  her  out  sweet,  simple,  intelligent^ 
and  I  don't  know  what  not,  with  no  better  op 
portunitj  of  judging  than  I  have  had." 

"I  merely  said  she  impressed  me  as  such.  One 
always  receives  an  impression  of  some  sort  in 
making  a  new  acquaintance.  And,  until  I  know 
the  worst,  I  like  to  think  the  best  of  those  1 
meet." 

"It  is  quite  the  contrary  with  me." 

"You  need  not  proclaim  that,"  thought  Helen. 
"Everybody  knows  it." 

They  were  now  summoned  to  tea.  Lucy  came 
down  looking  very  happy,  for  her  thoughts  were 
full  of  pleasant  images  of  home.  But  her  face 
grew  brilliant  when  her  uncle  gave  her  a  letter, 
and  she  saw  that  it  was  from  her  mother. 

"From  dear  mother!"  she  exclaimed.  "It  is 
from  mother!  How  very  kind!  She  must  have 
written  as  soon  as  I  left  home!" 

"The  mails  travel  faster  than  we  did,"  said  her 
uncle. 

"Quite  a  pretty  little  piece  of  acting,"  thought 
Miss  Prigott,  looking  with  disfavor  on  the  animated, 
glowing  face  opposite  her. 

"It  is  really  quite  remarkable  for  a  mother  tc 
write  to  her  child,"  she  said. 

"  But  you  do  not  know  how  much  mother  has  to 
do,  now  I  am  gone,"  said   Lucy.     "I  am  sure  she 


A   GLIMPSE    AT    "SOCIETY."  121 

must  have  sat  up  late  at  night  to  write  this:  she 
gave  it  a  little  loving  squeeze  under  the  table,  as 
she  spoke. 

"Then  I  am  sure  you  ought  not  to  enjoy  what 
has  cost  her  such  an  effort,"  said  Miss  Prigott. 

The  joyous  face  clouded  over.  *'I  am  selfish.*' 
thought  Lucy.  "All  I  care  for  is  my  own  pleasure. 
But  it  did  seem  so  good  to  have  a  letter  from  mo- 
ther! The  very  first  I  ever  had  from  her  in  my 
life!" 

Her  aunt  looked  embarrassed  and  displeased,  and 
mentally  revolved  a  plan  for  Miss  Prigott's  ejectment 
from  the  premises. 

Lucy  ventured,  after  tea,  to  run  to  her  room  long 
enough  to  read  her  precious  letter.  Very  precious 
indeed  it  was,  and  she  felt  tempted  to  read  it  once 
more,  before  rejoining  the  family,  when  a  knock  at 
her  door  arrested  her.  On  opening  it,  she  found 
Miss  Prigott  standing  before  her. 

"My  love,"  said  she,  "you  will  thank  me,  I  am 
sure,  if  I  use  the  privilege  of  a  friend,  and  give  you 
some  little  hints  that  may  be  of  service  to  you." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Lucy:  "will  you  come  in?" 

Miss  Prigott  entered  and  seated  herself. 

"My  dear,  you  are  ignorant  of  the  world,  and 
having  never  been  accustomed  to  good  society,  can« 
not  be  expected  to  conform  to  all  its  usages." 

"What  is  good  society?"  asked  Lucy. 


122  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

Miss  Prigott,  thus  arrested  in  the  full  tide  of  hei 
remarks,  fixed  her  little  astonished  eyes  upon  Lucy, 
and  was  for  a  time  speechless.  Was  the  question 
malicious?  or  was  the  girl,  after  all,  really  a  sim- 
pleton ? 

"Because  in  my  dictionary  it  tcslj  not  mean  what 
it  does  in  yours,"  said  Lucy. 

"It  can  have  but  one  meaning,  of  course." 

"I  think  it  has  more  than  one.  I  mean,  I  have 
been  taught  to  think  so." 

"Perhaps,  too,  you  think  you  have  been  accus- 
tomed to  it?" 

Lucy  smiled. 

"The  society  of  farmers,  and  farmers*  wives  and 
children,"  said  Miss  Prigott,  contemptuously. 

"  Is  that  bad  society  ?  " 

"You  will  find  my  patience  without  limit.  You 
can  go  on.  I  shall  bear  your  rudeness  with  equa- 
nimity." 

"I  hope  I  am  not  rude;  I  did  not  intend  it" 

"  Then  you  really  mean  to  say  you  have  been  in 
good  society  ?*• 

"  Yes,  I  do  say  so ! "  cried  Lucy  with  spirit.  "  I 
know  1  have  seen  little  of  the  world,  and  that  J 
am  very  ignorant  of  its  manners  and  customs.  But 
I  never  can  know  them  so  well  as  to  doubt  that, 
in  the  best  sense  of  the  word,  the  society  of  my 
parents  is  good,  very  good." 


A   GLIMPSE    AT    ''SOCIETY.**  123 

"I  thought  your  father  was  a  farmer.** 

"Yes,  he  is  a  farmer;  but  he  is  a  man  of  edu 
cation  and  refinement.  And  my  mother  was  wel 
educated  too." 

"  What  insufferable  pride ! "  cried  Miss  Prigott, 
clasping  her  hands.  "I  suppose  you  even  think 
you  find  nothing  better  here  than  you  did  at 
home !  " 

"No,  I  do  not  think  so.  I  do  not  say  so.  But 
I  only  say  I  was  used  at  home  always  to  see  real 
goodness,  real  refinement,  and  real  worth;  and  I 
never  knew  before  that  it  would  be  questioned 
anywhere." 

"  Of  course,  then,  my  wish  to  be  of  service  to 
you  is  a  vain  one.  You  are  already  so  entrenched 
in  wisdom." 

"Oh  no.  I  know  nothing  about  the  usages  of 
society  in  your  sense,  and  I  shall  thank  you  if  you 
will  be  so  very  good  as  to  teach  me  anything  you 
perceive  I  ought  to  know.  And  it  I  am  so  proud 
as  you  say,  I  am  very  sorry.  I  don't  wish  to  be 
proud,  I  do  want  to  be  and  do  right,  in  all  things." 

Miss  Prigott  was  mollified  by  the  eager,  earnest 
tone 

"I  came  to  say  to  you  that  it  is  not  proper  to 
spend  so  much  time  by  yourself.  But  I  dare  say 
youi  mother,  who  is  so  well  educated,  mentioned 
that  in  her  letter!" 


124  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"1  was  just  going  down;  I  only  wanted  to  read 
my  letter.  I  know  I  ought  to  be  careful  not  to 
keep  too  much  aloof  from  my  aunt  and  Helen." 

"Oh,  of  course  they  do  uot  need  your  society; 
they  are  sufficient  to  each  other." 

Lucy  shrank  back.  All  her  past  fear  of  intru 
sion  rushed  upon  her  with  new  force. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  she  cried.  "If  I  stay  by 
myself,  it  is  neglecting  them;  if  I  join  them,  it 
is  an  intrusion.  Oh,  Miss  Prigott!  I  never  spent 
one  hour  from  home  before,  and  I  always  asked 
mother  what  I  should  do,  and  she  always  seemed 
to  know!" 

"And  have  not  I  tried  to  be  a  mother  to  you, 
ever  since  you  came?  And  you  pay  no  heed  to 
what  I  say." 

'*Yes,  I  do,  indeed  I  do.  I  will  go  or  stay, 
just  as  you  advise." 

"  Go,  then,  of  course." 

Lucy  went;  and  if  her  spirits  were  not  brilliant^ 
and  if  the  long  evening  seemed  very  long,  who 
can  wonder,  who  has  ever  felt  the  little  eyes  of 
A  Miss  Prigctt? 


CHAPTER  X. 


TEE  SIXTEENTH  BIRTHDAY. 


UCY  was  surprised  and  delighted  on  tlie 
morning  of  her  birthday,  to  find  hei 
table  adorned  with  many  little  tasteful 
gifts.  There  was  among  them  a  small 
neatly-folded  package,  and  on  opening  it  she  found 
a  religious  tract,  addressed  to  the  "unconverted," 
from  between  whose  leaves  there  fell  the  collar  on 
which  she  had  seen  Miss  Prigott  expend  so  much 
labor. 

She  took  it  up  with  astonishment.  That  Miss 
Prigott,  after  all  that  had  passed,  should  attempt 
to  gratify  her,  seemed  incredible. 

''What  unjust  thoughts  I  have  had  of  her!"  she 
cried.  "I'll  go  this  minute  and  thank  her.  But 
let  me  look  at  this  tract  first.  *To  the  uncon- 
verted!' Did  she  mean  that  for  me?  Is  it  possi- 
ble I  have  appeared  so     ittlo  like   a   Christian   that 


126  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

ehe  could  feel  sure  1  was  not?  But  of  course  sha 
was  sure,  or  she  would  not  have  sent  me  this.'* 

A  bitter  pang  seized  her,  and  her  tears  fell  fast. 
She  thought  how  good  God  had  been  to  her  all 
her  life,  and  that  she  had  dishonored  Him;  and 
then  she  began  to  question  herself  as  to  how  she 
ever  had  dared  imagine  she  knew  anything  about 
real  love  to  Him.  The  longer  she  looked  at  her- 
self, the  more  discouraged  and  wretched  she  be- 
came, and  for  a  time  she  paced  her  room  in  an- 
guish. At  last  she  threw  herself  on  her  knees, 
and  laid  her  fears  and  her  despair  at  the  feet  of 
her  Saviour,  to  whom  the  first  alarm  should  have 
driven  her.  And  as  ahe  prayed  and  ventured 
herself  upon  Him,  peace  returned  to  her  heart; 
she  felt  that  she  was  His,  and  that  there  was 
needed  no  righteousness  of  hers  to  make  her  ac- 
ceptance with  Him  sure  and  steadfast.  As  she 
rose  from  her  knees,  her  eyes  fell  upon  a  little  book 
that  had  lain  unnoticed  among  her  other  birthday 
gifts.  It  was  from  her  aunt;  and  on  opening  it,  its 
very  title  cheered  her:  "Daily  Food  for  Christians." 

"My  aunt  then  guessed  what  I  needed,"  sho 
thought,  and  hastily  turning  to  the  verses  for  the 
day,  she  was  struck  by  their  sympathy  with  her 
present  mood.  "Who  is  among  you  that  feareth 
the  Lord,  that  obeyeth  the  voice  of  His  servant,  that 
walketh  in  darkness,  and  hath  no  light?     Let  him 


THE    SIXTEENTH    BIRTHDAY.  127 

h'ust  in  the  name  of  the  Lord,  and  stay  upon  hia 
God."  And  "Though  He  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust 
in  Him." 

*'  Yes,  I  may  distrust  and  doubt  myself,  but  I  will 
'itay  upon  my  God  and  trust  Him  ! "  she  thought. 
She  stood  with  the  precious  little  book  in  her  hand 
many  minutes;  it  comforted  her  inexpressibly. 

They  were  all  awaiting  her  in  the  dining-room^ 
anticipating  pleasure  from  her  enjoyment  of  the 
surprise  they  had  prepared  for  her.  But  though  there 
was  a  tranquil  expression  on  her  face  as  she  joined 
them,  all  remarked  that  she  was  paler  than  usual, 
and  that  she  had  been  weeping. 

"Are  you  more  unwell  this  morning,  dear?* 
asked   her  aunt. 

"Oh  no,  aunt;  and  I  have  been  delighted  with 
my  beautiful  birthday  presents.  I  thank  you  so 
much,  dear  uncle!  and  you  too,  aunt!  And  for 
my  pretty  collar,  I  suppose  I  must  thank  Miss 
Prigott." 

'■''Miss  Prigott  wishes  no  thanks,"  remarked  that 
lady,  drily. 

"  You  gave  me  an  unexpected  pleasure,  at  all 
events,"  said  Lucy,  determined  not  to  be  annoyed. 

"I  wish  I  could  give  profit  as  easily." 

Lucy  understood  this  remark  to  refer  to  the  tracts 
and  she  said  in  a  low  voice, 

*'I  thank  you  for  the  wish." 


128  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

After  breakfast,  as  she  was  passing  through  th« 
hall,  Miss  Prigott's  head  once  more  made  its  ap- 
pearance from  the  side-door. 

"  If  you  can  spare  time,  I  should  like  to  see  you,*' 
she  said. 

Lucy  entered  the  room  with  a  beating  heart  hardly 
knowing  what  she  feared,  yet  certainly  afraid. 

'*  You  were  displeased  at  my  sending  you  a  tract!" 
Miss  Prigott  began. 

*'  Not  disjphased^'^  replied  Lucy.  "  Only  I  was 
sorry." 

"For  what?'' 

"That  I  had  given  you  occasion  to  do  it,"  she 
said,  in  a  voice  so  gentle,  so  humble,  that  Miss 
Prigott  for  a  moment  was  touched.  But  only  for  a 
moment.  Instantly  gathering  up  all  the  dignity 
she  could  concentrate  in  her  little  person,  she  fas- 
tened her  eyes  upon  the  shrinking  figure  before 
her. 

"What  do  you  mean,  child?"  she  asked. 

Lucy  was  silent. 

*'Do  you  mean  to  pretend  that  you  are  capable 
of  judging  for  yourself  what  sort  of  tracts  you 
need?    Or  what?" 

"At  my  age,  I  ought  to  have  some  opinion  on 
such  a  subject.  But  I  feel  just  as  grateful  to 
you  for  your  wish  to  be  of  service  to  me,  as 
if — ^    she   hesitated. 


THE    SIXTEENTH    BIRTHDAY.  12S 

"Go  on." 

"  As  if  you  Lad  chosen  the  best  way.  If  you  had 
called  me  in  here,  and  told  me  you  feared  I  waa 
not  a  Christian,  and  had  pointed  out  wherein  I  had 
given  you  occasion  to  think  so;  then,  I  think,  1 
should  not  have  felt  so  very,  very  wretched  as  1 
did."  Tears  started  to  her  eyes  as  she  recalled  the 
misery  of  the  morning,  and  she  rose  to  go. 

"Sit  down,  child,"  said  Miss  Prigott;  "sit  down. 
I'm  sure  I  had  no  wish  to  make  you  wretched! 
But  girls  do  use  such  strong  language !  I  am  sorry 
my  tract  was  not  to  your  taste.  And  I  can't  ac- 
count for  it  that  I  should  have  made  a  mistake  in 
my  choice  of  it.  Are  you  sure  you  are  not  yourself 
mistaken  ?  " 

"No,  not  sure.     But  I  hope  not!     I  trust  not!" 

"  Well !  I  must  say  I  never  dreamed  you  were 
religious.  I  have  not  heard  you  speak  a  word  that 
would  indicate  it,  since  you  came  here." 

"  It  is  not  my  way  to  talk  much  on  such 
subjects." 

" '  Your  loay  I  *  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  Chris- 
tians have  different  ways  peculiar  to  themselves, 
and  in  which  they  all  are  right?" 

**I  did  not  say  that;  but  I  always  was  taught  tc 
think  so.'* 

"Then  there  is  no  standard?  Every  one  is  t« 
judge  for  himself?" 


130  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"Christ  is  the  standard.  Every  one  is  to  try  tc 
be  like  Him." 

"And  I  suppose  it  was  not  His  way  to  talk  much 
about  religion?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  it  was,"  said  Lucy,  rousing  her. 
self,  and  speaking  with  animation.  "Not  to  talk  abovi 
it.  I  never  could  see  that  that  was  expected  of  us, 
either." 

"Poor  child!  you  have  been  sadly  taught,  T  fear. 
Now,  listen :  Christians  are  the  disciples  of  Christ. 
They  are  either  like  Him,  or  they  do  not  deserve  the 
name.  And  if  they  are  all  like  Him,  they  are,  of 
course,  all  like  each  other,  just  as  coins  are  all  sim- 
ilar to  each  other  when  the  casts  of  one  die." 

"My  father  has  often  told  me  that  natural  char- 
acteristics modify  the  Christian  life,"  said  Lucy. 
"For  instance,  that  Paul  could  not  be  John,  noi 
Moses,  David." 

Miss  Prigott  was  astonished  and  puzzled. 

"  I  never  saw  such  a  girl  in  ray  life ! "  she  ex- 
claimed. "I  thought  I  was  going  to  have  such 
comfort  in  you!  First,  I  gave  you  that  tract;  and 
then,  I  was  to  give  you  others,  as  I  found  you  pre- 
pared for  them.  But  now,  all  my  plans  are  disar- 
ranged. Nothing  in  this  world  gives  me  such  pure 
pleasure  as  doing  good.  But  you  have  thwarted 
me  from  the  outset." 

"  I  do  believe  she  wishes  I  was  a  perfect  heathen, 


THE    SIXTEENTH    BIRTHDAY.  iSl 

whom  she  might  convert  at  her  leisure,"  thoughi 
Lucy.  But  in  an  instant  she  reproached  herself  for 
the  thought,  and  said: 

"  There  are  some  tracts  I  want  very  much.  Thc-rf 
is  one  of  Newton's,  called  'The  Progress  of  Grace, 
that  I  have  long  wanted.  If  you  would  be  so  kind 
as  to  give  me  that,  I  should  be  very  glad." 

She  hoped  thus  to  appease  Miss  Prigott's  troubled 
soul,  but  hoped  in  vain.  Miss  Prigott  looked  negli 
gently  over  the  great  bundle  of  tracts  upon  hei 
table,  and  said  at  last  it  was  not  among  them.  In 
fact,  it  formed  no  part  of  her  scheme  to  build  np  the 
objects  of  her  compassion  in  faith  and  good  works. 
She  was  one  of  a  large  class  of  good  people  who,  in 
their  zeal  for  the  utterly  irreligious,  lose  sight  of 
those  babes  in  Christ  who  stand  in  almost  as  press- 
ing need  of  culture  as  they  once  did  of  warning. 

"You  may  return  that  unfortunate  tract  you  de 
Bpise  so  much,"  she  said,  as  Lucy  once  more  rose 
to  go. 

*'  I  do  not  despise  it,"  said  Lucy,  *'  nor  your  good 
will,  either.  I  thank  you  for  both.  And  I  am  very 
sorry  I  can't  make  you  understand  me,  and  see  how 
much,  liow  very  much  obliged  I  am  to  anybody 
who  wishes  to  help  me  become  that  which  I  long 
for!" 

The  sincere,  earnest  tone  went  to  Miss  Prigott's 
heart 


1'32  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

*  I  believe  you  do  mean  right,"  she  saiJ ;  "  but  yon 
aeed  training,  much  training.  If  you  are  really  a 
Christian,  why  not  show  the  simplicity  of  one?  Why 
all  this  parade  of  curls  about  your  face,  that  every 
body  notices  wherever  you  go?" 

"My  hair  was  not  made  by  myself,"  replied  Lucy^ 
who  could  hardly  speak  for  surprise. 

"At  least  you  could  cut  off  those  long  curls.  Why 
should  Christians  conform  thus  to  the  world  ? " 

'*I  was  always  taught  to  make  myself  look  as  well 
as  I  could,  without  too  much  time  and  thought.  Mo- 
ther always  said  people  owed  so  much  to  each  other. 
And  she  always  would  have  us  neat  and  clean,  what- 
ever else  we  lacked.  She  said  that  was  our  only 
ornament." 

"Ah,  I  see  how  it  is!  you  love  that  pretty  hair 
more  than  the  will  of  God?" 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  Lucy.  "  I  don't  know  that  I 
ever  gave  it  so  many  thoughts  at  a  time  in  my  life, 
as  I  have  just  now.  But  I  supposed,  as  it  ivoidd 
curl—" 

"  Just  as  if  it  would  curl  if  you  did  not  spend  an 
hour  every  morning  upon  it ! ' 

"  It  would  be  in  sad  confusion,  certainly,  if  I  did 
not  take  care  of  it  But  I  do  not  spend  that  time 
on  it,  nor  anything  like  it." 

"But  you  are  vain  of  it;  come,  you  can't  denj 
that." 


THE   SIXTEENTH    BIRTHDAY.  133 

Lucy  was  silent. 

"  If  not,  of  course  you  won't  object  to  my  relieving 
you  of  it."  As  she  spoke,  Miss  Prigott  approached 
her  with  scissors  in  hand.  Lucy  instinctively  put  up 
both  hands  in  self-defense. 

*'  I  am  not  vain  of  my  hair,"  said  she ;  "  but  I  do 
not  wish  to  lose  it.  You  might  as  well  cut  off  my 
skin  because  it  is  not  black.  Or,  if  you  must  cut, 
suppose  you  begin  at  this  collar,"  she  added,  laugh- 
ing.    "I'm  sure  it's  not  simple  at  all.'* 

Miss  Prigott  laid  aside  her  scissors,  and  smiled 
too.  She  liked  opposition  as  much  as  she  liked  sim- 
plicity. Her  eye  rested  complacently  upon  the  collar 
Lucy  wore.  "Well,  we  shall  none  of  us  stagnate 
while  you  are  here,"  said  she.  "  And,  on  the  whole, 
you  look  so  very  ugly  with  your  hair  off  your  face, 
that  I  think  Providence  meant  you  should  wear  it  as 
you  do.  There's  a  philosophy  in  hair,  as  there  is  in 
everything." 

Lucy  now  made  her  escape.  Helen  met  her  as 
ehe  was  hurrying  through  the  hall. 

"Where  have  you  been?  And  what's  the  mat- 
ter with  you/  hair?" 

"  I've  been  in  Miss  Prigott's  room,  and  she 
wanted  to  cut  off  my  curls  to  bring  down  my 
vanity." 

"Your  vanity  I  Well!  I  should  like  to  cut  down 
hers     But  it  would  take  too  long.     She's  been  leo 


134  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

turing  you,   I  dare  say.     What  about?     Do  let  ua 
Hear ! " 

"Oh,  about  various  thiugs!  But  she  means  ii 
foi  the  best." 

•*  These  old  maids  are  always  busy-bodies,"  said 
Helen.  "  And  Miss  Prigott  was  an  old  maid  when 
she  was  born." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  Were  you  there  at  the 
time?"  Helen  smiled  and  shrugged  her  shoulders 
a  little;  a  trick  she  had  caught,  unconsciously,  from 
her  French  master.  Lucy  went  on,  and  shut  her 
self  into  her  room.  She  felt  uneasy  and  restless; 
and  only  in  solitude  could  she  look  into  her  own 
heart,  and  learn  the  reason.  At  first  she  felt  dis- 
posed to  charge  it  to  Miss  Prigott;  but  she  soon 
perceived  that  her  perplexity  lay  far  down  in  re- 
gions to  which  that  lady  had  not  penetrated. 

'*  What  is  it  I  want  now  ?  What  would  I  have 
if  at  this  moment  I  could  be  endowed  with  that 
which  I  need  most  ? "  was  her  anxious  question. 
And  the  answer  soon  came.  "1  want  an  anchor. 
I  want  to  feel  myself  fixed  somewhere." 

^Yes,  it  was  just  this.  The  fitful  temper  wanted 
something  whereon  to  fasten  itself.  The  changeful 
humor  yearned  for  something  that  knew  not  change. 
The  distrustful  heart  must  have  a  rock  on  which 
to  plant  itself  Hitherto  there  had  been  much  of 
doubt,  and  darkness,  and  conflict  in  her  soul.     Everj 


THE    SIXTEENTH    BIRTHDAY.  135 

wind  that  blew,  affected  the  aspect  of  life  to  hei 
view.  Even  a  Miss  Prigott  could  shake  her  faith 
in  God,  make  her  doubt  His  love  and  mercy,  and 
cut  her  loose  from  the  Rock  on  which  she  waa 
moored.  Should  this  be  so?  Amid  the  multitude 
of  her  thoughts  within  her,  the  idea  of  God  alone 
offered  repose.  To  Him  then  she  turned.  To  Him 
she  confessed  her  capricious,  changeful  temper;  her 
doubts,  fears,  mistakes;  and  besought  Him  now  and 
once  for  all  to  fasten  her  to  Himself.  The  Spirit 
of  God  chooses  to  work  by  simple  means.  The 
experience  of  that  morning  assured  her  of  this. 
For  amid  days  otherwise  dark,  in  the  fitful  moods 
of  a  sensitive,  impressible  nature;  in  the  weariness 
of  ill  health  and  languor,  there  was,  ever  after, 
one  point  where  was  no  darkness  at  all,  one  centre 
where  all  was  peace.  Friends  disappointed  the 
eager  heart  that  asked  too  much;  change  and  un- 
certainty brooded  over  the  path  as  yet  untried ;  but 
far  above  chance  and  change,  rose  the  sense  of 
Ilim  to  whom  she  was  "safely  moored."  "He  is 
my  rock,  and  there  is  no  unrighteousness  in  Him ! " 
was  now  her  joyful,  and  now*  her  tearful,  but  ever 
her  thankful  assurance.  Does  any  young  heart 
regard  this  picture  of  Lucy's  birthday  as  sombre,- 
and  shrink  from  it  with  disgust?  It  is  surely  not 
meet  that  they  who  have  had  sad  experience  of 
the  vicissitudes  of  life  should  throw  back  upon  a 


i36  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

• 

younger  and  more  joyous  and  more  fearless  tem 
per,  the  shadows  they  have  worn  as  a  garment 
But  there  is  sorrow  and  disappointment  and  change 
for  all.  And  there  is  no  soul  strong  enough  to 
face  life  alone.  In  its  plunge  into  the  billows  it 
must  have  the  assurance  that  one  who  has  buffeted 
those  waves  in  human  infirmity  and  suffering,  stands 
Upon  the  bank  with  outstretched,  unwearied  hand, 
to  rescue,  and  to  support. 

When  Lucy  left  her  room,  she  found  Helen  equip- 
ped for  a  drive. 

"You  must  go  too,**  she  said:  "mamma  thinks 
you  should  not  try  to  walk  at  present." 

"  I  have  a  visit  to  pay  just  out  of  the  city,  and 
as  it  is  a  fine  morning,  I  think  you  must  accompany 
me,"  said  her  aunt.  Lucy  felt  not  at  all  disposed 
to  meet  strangers  in  her  present  mood,  yet  she 
dared  not  object ;  and  they  were  soon  on  their  way, 
Miss  Prigott  forming  one  of  the  party.  Whatever 
terror  and  shyness  went  with  her  was  put  to  flight 
at  once  by  the  benignant,  friendly  face  with  which 
Lucy  was  charmed  on  her  introduction  to  Mrs.  Lee. 

"  It  wouldn  t  be  very  hard  work  to  love  her ! " 
fcnought  she;  a  thought  whose  echo  at  that  moment 
was  making  its^f  sensible  in  the  heart  of  her  new 
friend.  After  Mrs.  Lee  had  held  some  moments 
conversation  with  her  aunt  aiid  Miss  Prigott,  Lucy 
was  not  sorry  to  find  herself  addressed. 


THE    SIXTEENTH    BIRTHDAY.  137 

"You  remind  me  of  an  old  and  very  dear  friend 
of  my  youth,"  she  said.  "  How  singular  these  ro- 
Bemblances  are!  Miss  Prigott!  do  you  remembei 
our  schoolfellow,  Sarah  Whittier  ?  " 

'*  Of  course  I  do,"  returned  Miss  Prigott. 

"And  does  not  this  young  lady  resemble  her! 
Excuse  me,  my  dear,"  she  added,  observing  the 
color  that  had  rushed  to  Lucy's  face ;  *'  I  forgot 
for  the  moment  that  it  is  not  pleasant  to  be  thus 
scrutinized.     But  this  was  a  dear,  very  dear  friend ! " 

"The  likeness  is  not  miraculous,"  remarked  Misa 
Prigott.     "This  is  her  daughter." 

"The  daughter  of  Sarah  Whittier!"  cried  Mrs. 
Lee,  drawing  Lucy  to  her  breast  and  kissing  her 
tenderly.     "My  dear  child!" 

Pleasure  and  pain  struggled  together  in  Lucy's 
heart,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  while  her 
face  shone  with  smiles. 

"How  unkind  in  Miss  Prigott  never  to  tell  me 
she  had  known  my  mother!"  said  the  tears. 

'*  How  delightful  to  meet  one  of  her  old  friends  I ' 
said  the  smiles. 

There  was  an  "open  sesame"  to  her  heart  in 
the  embraces  Mrs.  Lee  so  cordially  gave  her.  She 
needed  few  questions  to  lead  her  into  such  a  glow 
ing,  tender  description  of  her  mother,  and  brothers, 
and  sisters  as  only  love  and  her  simple  unspoile(J 
nature  could  give;  and  Mrs.  Lee  sat  holding   t^'» 


138  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

hand  she  had  clasped  at  the  outset,  almost  as  simple, 
as  loving,  and  as  child-like  herself.  Mrs.  Whittief 
and  Helen  looked  on  and  enjoyed  the  scene  which 
Miss  Prigott  at  last  interrupted  by  a  dry,  "  Are  we 
to  spend  the  day  here?'*  and  then  there  was  a 
hasty  leave-taking,  and  a  whirl  into  the  noise,  and 
uproar  and  hurry  of  the  city,  and  so  home. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


GOOD  INTENTION'S,  IF  NOT  GOOD   WORKS. 


^l|HE  next  day  Lucy  was  more  unwell.  Miss 
Prigott  said  it  was  just  what  she  ex- 
pected; though  on  what  grounds  this 
expectation  was  founded,  she  declined 
to  state.  Her  aunt  would  no  longer  delay  consult- 
ing a  physician,  and  Lucy  pleaded  against  it,  this 
time,  in  vain.  She  cast  a  longing  glance  back  to 
dear,  good,  homely  Dr.  White,  and  wished  herself 
in  his  hands;  but  the  wishes  could  not  bring  him, 
and  her  dread  of  Dr.  Thornton  could  not  keep  him 
away.  He  came,  looking,  as  the  saying  is,  as  if  he 
had  just  "come  out  of  a  bandbox;"  with  few  words, 
a  grave,  almost  solemn  face,  and  an  already  care- 
worn expression  on  his  still  youthful  brow.  Hia 
visit  was  brief;  Lucy  fancied  he  had  hardly  looked 
at  her.  But  his  eye  had  been  as  busy  as  it  seemed 
quiet.     He  had  felt  the  changing  pulse   that   indi- 


140  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

cated  so  faithfully  every  sudden  emotion;  had  ob- 
served the  color  that  came  and  went  in  the  young 
face,  and  the  compressed  lips  that  shut  back  com- 
plaint, and  had  said  as  plainly  as  speech  could  do, 
that  a  strong  will  dwelt  in  the  fragile  form.  Yes, 
he  had  even  taken  note  of  that  sunny  flood  of  lux- 
uriant hair  that  shone  around  the  sweet  face,  and 
the  large,  brown  eye,  rare  in  color  as  it  was  in  size. 
But  though  doctors  in  stories  always  shake  their 
heads,  he  had  not  shaken  his;  and  when  Mrs.  Whit- 
tier  followed  him  as  he  left  the  room,  his  few  words 
reassured  her.  He  thought  Lucy's  illness  not  ser- 
ious. Yet  for  many  days  he  continued  his  visits, 
and  Lucy  soon  learned,  in  spite  of  her  fear  of  him, 
to  enjoy  these  brief  interviews.  One  day,  in  the 
course  of  conversation,  Helen,  exclaiming  at  some 
playful  remark  Lucy  had  made,  cried,  *'  Why,  Lucy 
Grant !  **  Instantly  the  face  of  Dr.  Thornton  flushed 
with  a  new  interest 

"  Are  you  from  the  country  ?  *'  he  asked. 

Lucy  answered  that  she  was,  with  a  momentary 
surprise  at  the  question.  He  looked  at  her  now 
with  real  interest;  she  felt  the  difference  between 
his  present  manner  and  that  polite,  unconcerned  aii 
he  had  hitherto  worn,  and  smiled  with  a  half  satis- 
fied,  half  inquisitive  air. 

"My  brother  has  made  your  acquaintance,  ] 
think,"  he  said. 


GOOD   INTENTIONS,   IF   NOT  GOOD   WORKS.      141 

"I  don't  remember,"  said  Lucy,  trying  to  think 
whether  she  really  knew  any  person  of  that  name. 

*'0h  no,  Lucy  does  not  know  him,"  said  her  aunt. 
"He  went  abroad  before  she  came  to  us." 

He  made  no  reply,  but  still  looked  with  a  new 
not  unkind  interest  upon  Lucy.  "  I  have  a  sister  to 
whom  I  must  introduce  you,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  Oh,  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  doing  that ! "  said 
her  aunt.  "  Lucy  dear,  Mrs.  Lee  is  a  sister  of  Dr. 
Thornton." 

Lucy's  frank  smile  said  she  was  glad  of  that,  and 
she  was  going  on  to  tell  him  how  Mrs.  Lee  and  her 
mother  had  been  old  friends,  when  a  look  from  Misa 
Prigott  restrained  her.  How  she  knew  Miss  Prigott'a 
eyes  were  upon  her,  nobody  knows,  but  they  acted 
instantaneously  upon  and  froze  her  up. 

"Your  mother  must  have  had  an  immense  fam 
ily,"  said  that  lady,  addressing  the  doctor. 

He  smiled.  *'  Pray,  by  what  rules  do  you  judge  ?  " 
he  asked. 

*'Why,  there  must  have  been  at  least  twenty 
years  between  Mrs.  Lee  and  yourself." 

"There  were  fifteen.     But  what  then?" 

"  Why,  if  there  was  a  child  every  year  or  two — * 

"But,  unfortunately  for  your  theory,  my  good 
lady,  there  was  not.  There  was  an  awful  chasm 
between  Mrs.  Lee  and  myself* 

"  '  My  good  lady  1 '    What  irreverence !  " 


142  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

Miss  Prigott  felt  it  to  her  fingers'  ends,  and  Lei 
little  soul  rose  against  Dr.  Thornton,  and  said  it 
wouldn't  stand  such  treatment. 

No  sooner  had  he  taken  leave,  than,  to  the  sur- 
prise of  everybody,  she  broke  out  with: 

*'  Well !  when  /  was  young,  we  didn't  employ  hay§ 
for  our  physicians!  If  we  had,  I  wonder  where  J 
should  be  now  I  " 

"  Quite  an  interesting  question ! "  whispered  Helen 
to  Lucy. 

"And  I  am  surprised,  Lucy,  that  you  expect  to 
get  well  under  such  treatment,"  continued  Miss 
Prigott. 

"  I  thought  you  said  she  wasn't  sick  1 "  said  Helen. 

*'  Sick !  she's  seriously  sick,  I've  no  doubt.  And 
this  little  snipper-snapper  of  a  fellow,  this  Dr. 
Thornton,  pretends  that  she  is  improving ! " 

"  He  is  six  feet  high,"  said  Helen,  smiling. 

"Lucy  certainly  does  look  better,"  said  her  aunt 
*  Sometimes  she  has  quite  a  good  color." 

"A  hectic  flush,"  said  Miss  Prigott. 

Lucy  laughed;  and  so  did  her  aunt. 

"You've  quite  a  'hectic  flush'  yourself,"  said 
Helen,  playfully. 

Miss  Prigott  was  silent,  but  from  that  hour  Lucy 
became  the  victim  of  a  thousand  petty,  wearisome 
annoyances,  that  it  required  patience  piled  on  pa- 
tience to  endure  with  equanimity. 


GOOD  INTENTIONS,   IF   NOT   GOOD   WORKS.      143 

She  must  have  mustard  on  her  chest,  and  cam 
phor  on  her  throat;  a  cloud  as  big  as  a  man's  hand 
must  forbid  her  going  out,  lest  she  should  take 
cold;  a  ray  of  sunshine  not  wider  than  a  knitting- 
needle  must  not  creep  into  her  room,  lest  it  should 
make  her  feverish.  If  she  sat  up  she  was  conjured 
to  lie  down;  if  she  read,  books  were  pronounced 
exciting.  If  she  ate  her  food  with  a  gusto,  it  was 
proof  that  there  was  an  unnatural  appetite  to 
check;  if  otherwise,  she  was  committing  suicide  by 
starvation. 

"  Is  there  anything  you  feel  you  could  fancy,  my 
love!"  she  inquired  so  many  times  one  day,  that 
Lucy  said  at  last,  in  despair,  she  should  like  a  bit 
of  chicken.  When  it  was  brought,  and  in  process 
of  consumption,  Miss  Prigott  hovered  around  the 
plate,  not  to  say  over  it,  with  so  many  cautions, 
provisos  and  suspicions,  that  the  poor  child  could 
not  take  a  morsel.  Then  the  little  sagacious  head 
was  shaken,  and  Miss  Prigott  pronounced  it  as  a 
feature  of  consumptive  cases,  that  the  appetite  was 
always  capricious.  In  her  weariness  and  languor, 
these  little  trials  wore  upon  Lucy  sadly.  She  would 
have  found  the  mouth  of  a  cannon  a  pleasant  ex- 
change for  any  one  of  them.  Meanwhile  Miss  Prig- 
ott took  care  to  restrain  herself  when  Mrs.  Whit  tier 
and  Helen  were  present,  and  not  a  tithe  of  the  annoy- 
ances to  which  she  subjected  their  dear  Lucy  evei 


144  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

was  known  to  them.  At  last  she  armed  herself  with 
an  immense  medical  book,  and  in  the  intervals  when 
alone  with  her  victim,  proceeded  to  study  her  case. 

"  Does  it  hurt  you  to  draw  a  long  breath  ?  Have 
you  raised  anything  rust-colored?"  she  inquired^ 
to  both  which  questions  Lucy  said  nay. 

"  Have  you  a  pain  in  your  chest,  inclining  to  the 
left  side,  sometimes  affecting  the  left  arm?" 

"I  had  once  a  dreadful  attack,"  said  Lucy. 

'*Then  your  heart  is  diseased.  It  is  ossified;  oi 
in  process  of  ossifying." 

"But  I  don't  have  such  pains  now,"  said  Lucy. 

"Oh,  well,  you'll  be  having  them,  depend  upon 
it.  You  must  be  careful  when  you  go  up  a  hill; 
and  how  you  run  upstairs.  I've  often  seen  you 
run  upstairs  two  at  a  time." 

She  read  on,  leaving  Lucy  to  her  own  cheering 
reflections.  Suddenly  she  started  up.  "Let  me 
look  at  the  corners  of  your  eyes,"  said  she.  "Yes, 
they're  as  yellow  as  beeswax.  Do  you  ever  havo 
a  pain  in  your  right  side?  Do  you  ever  feel  de- 
pressed and  melancholy?  Have  you  a  bitter  taste 
in  your  mouth?  Oh,  yes,  I  know  you  have;  your 
liver  is  inflamed;  it  is  in  an  alarming  state.  That 
causes  your  cough.  Your  liver  is  swollen,  and 
crowds  on  your  lungs  and  tickles  them;  then  you 
cough ;  and  that  good-for-nothing  Dr.  Thornton  says 
you're  in  consumption." 


roOD   INTENTIONS,   IF  NOT  GOOD  WORKS.      145 

"Did  he  say  that?"  cried  Lucy,  starting  up. 

"Why,  if  he  didn't,  he  thinks  so,  I  know.  And 
I  ve  said  all  along  it  was  your  liver." 

"By  the  time  you've  read  that  book  through,  I 
shall  be  pretty  thoroughly  diseased,"  said  Lucy. 

*'You  need  not  laugh.  Your  case  is  really  seri- 
ous. And  if  it  had  not  been  for  me,  you  would 
have  died  of  liver-complaint  long  ago." 

At  this  moment  Charles  put  his  head  in  at  the 
half-open  door. 

"There's  a  little,  dried-up,  fussy  old  woman 
down-stairs,  who  wants  to  see  you,  Miss  Prigott," 
said  he. 

She  bustled  away,  and  he  looked  after  her, 
laughing. 

*'  She'll  be  delighted  when  she  sees  who  it  is," 
he  said. 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  Lucy. 

"Mrs.  Nobody,"  he  answered. 

"Oh,  Charles!  how  very  unkind  I  And  you  said 
what  is  not  true." 

"It  is  April-fool's  day,"  he  answered;  "besides, 
what  business  has  she  to  be  scaring  you  to  death 
with  her  old  doctors'  books?  Mamma  would  be  so 
angry  if  she  knew  it!  And  if  she  looks  in  the 
glass  on  the  hat-stand,  she'll  see  just  the  little  old 
woman  I  sent  her  to  see." 

"I've   done  a  great   many  things   1    ought   not,*" 


146  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

said  Lucy,  "but  I  don't  think  I  ever  tried  to  teas« 
a  respectable  old  woman  in  my  life." 

"Perhaps  you  never  wanted  to.  Now,  I  did 
want  to ;  so  there's  the  difference."  • 

"Yes;  but  still,  I'm  very  sorry  you  did  that." 

**  She's  Prig  by  name,  and  prig  by  nature,"  said 
Charles. 

He  felt  nettled  at  Lucy's  reproof,  and  revenged 
himself  thus.  Lucy  was  silent.  He  got  up,  and 
went  whistling  through  the  room.  His  conscience 
emote  him,  and  the  longer  he  reflected,  the  more 
ashamed  he  felt. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  her  feelings,"  said  he.  "I 
only  wanted  to  have  a  little  fun." 

"Mayn't  I  tell  her  so?  Do  let  me!"  She 
caught  his  hand  as  he  passed  her  couch,  and  her 
pleading  look  prevailed.  "I'll  tell  her  myself,"  he 
said. 

He  went  out,  and  met  Miss  Prigott  on  the  stairs, 
but  instead  of  the  exasperated  look  he  expected  to 
encounter,  he  \^«,s  surprised  by  one  of  the  most 
kindly  and  forgiving  nature. 

"It's  the  first  of  April,"  she  said,  smiling.  "I 
should  have  remembered  that." 

"  I  never  saw  anybody  like  her  in  my  life ! " 
thought  Charles.  "The  least  she  could  have  done 
was  to  fly  in  a  passion." 

He  felt  disgusted  with  her  that  she  had  shown 


GOOD  INTENTIONS,   IF   NOT   GOOD   WORKS.      147 

BO  little  spirit,  though  he  would  have  been  iiidig* 
nant  if  she  had  shown  more.  So  consistent  are  we 
all !  Lucy's  face  expressed  some  surprise,  and  Miss 
Prigott  observed  it. 

"Is  it  so  strange  to  see  an  old  woman  control 
herself?'   she  asked. 

"It  is  strange  to  see  anybody  do  that,  old  or 
young,"  said  Lucy ;  "  and  as  pleasant  as  it  is 
strange.*' 

She  felt  already  a  kindly  glow  of  interest  in  and 
sympathy  with  Miss  Prigott,  hitherto  quite  un- 
known; for  she  saw  that  the  provocation  to  anger 
had  been  great.  The  little  yellow  face  seemed 
lighted  with  a  charm  that  attracted  her;  and  as  she 
looked  upon  it,  she  saw  that  two  tears  twinkled  on 
the  short  eyelashes,  although  the  thin  lips  wore  a 
serene  smile.  The  next  time  she  spoke,  though  it 
was  only  to  say  "thank  you,"  when  Miss  Prigott 
offered  her  a  fan,  the  tones  of  her  voice  said  what 
a  score  of  set  speeches  could  not  have  done.  They 
said,  "  I  have  begun  to  love  you ! "  And  Misa 
Prigott's  lonely  heart  had  won  for  itself  a  treasure 
that  cheered  and  blessed  it  as  no  earthly  object 
had  ever  done  before. 

Charles  walked  hither  and  thither,  in  an  unen- 
viable mood,  wishing  Miss  Prigott  to  all  manner 
of  places — to  "Joppa,"  and  to  "Jericho,"  and  tc 
the  "bottom  of  the  Red  Sea;"  but  she  sat  still  in 


148  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

her  chair,  as  unaffected  by  his  maledictions  as  she 
was  unconscious  of  them.  At  last  she  rose  and 
went  to  her  room,  where  her  Bible  and  her  hymn 
book  waited  for  her  with  words  of  comfort  and 
sympathy.  As  soon  as  she  was  out  of  hearing, 
Charles  drew  near  again  to  Lucy. 

"What  makes  you  look  so  grave?"  he  asked. 

"  Who,   I  ? "  said  Lucy.     *'  I  was  only  thinking." 

"A  penny  for  your  thoughts,  then." 

"They  are  not  worth  that.  I  was  only  thinking 
of  poor  Miss  Prigott." 

"Poor!  rich  Miss  Prigott,  you  mean.  She's  aa 
rich  as  a  Jew." 

"She  may  be  poor,  for  all  that.  Though,  if  she 
has  plenty  of  money,  she's  better  off  than  I  sup 
posed.  But  I  meant  that  she  is  poor  in  friends. 
Nobody  seems  to  like  her;  at  least,  no  one  loves 
her." 

^^ Loves  her ! "  said  Charles,  making  a  face  at  the 
bare  thought. 

"Well,  I  do  think  I  shall  get  to  loving  her  in 
time.  At  first,  I  didn't  at  all.  I  only  saw  her  dis- 
agreeable qualities.  But  I  see  that  underneath  them 
she  has  something  good." 

"Do  look  at  me  through  those  rose -colored 
spectacles." 

"Well,  but,  Charles,  was  it  not  really  good  in 
her  to  take   no   offense   at  your   calling    her   such 


GOOD  INTENTIONS,   IF  NOT  GOOD   WORKS.      143 

dreadful  names  ?  Think  how  pleasantly  she  trotted 
down  to  the  parlor  and  back  again.'* 

*'  Pooh !  she  did  not  understand  that  I  meant  hei 
by  those  titles.  You'd  have  seen  her  angry  enough, 
if  she  had." 

Lucy  was  silent  again.  In  his  present  mood, 
Bhe  thought  it  not  wise  to  argue  with  him. 

"You  think  me  a  perfect  scamp!"  said  he. 

"Oh,  no!  I  only  wanted  you  to  be  just;  as  boys 
are  apt  to  be." 

"Well,  what  do  you  want  me  to  do?  Go  and 
fall  on  her  neck,  and  cry,  and  tell  her  I  am 
sorry  ?  " 

Lucy  smiled,  and  he  could  not  help  smiling  too. 

"  I  like  fun  as  well  as  you  do,'*  she  said,  "  only, 
as  this  is  your  father's  house,  and  Miss  Prigott  ia 
a  visitor  in  it,  and  an  old  woman  too,  I  felt  a 
little  sorry;  but  never  mind  now.  1  dare  say  Pve 
made  too  much  ado  about  it." 

He  looked  as  if  he  thought  so;  but  when  he 
met  Miss  Prigott  at  the  tea-table,  shortly  after,  his 
kind,  attentive  manner  said  just  what  he  was 
ashamed  to  say  in  words,  "  I  am  sorry  if  I  have 
hurt  your  feelings."  When  he  entered  his  room 
that  night,  he  found  on  his  table  a  set  of  books 
he  had  long  desired.  They  stood  in  elegant  bind- 
ings, a  little  army  of  pleasant  surprises. 

"  Papa  knew  I  wanted  them ! "  was  his  delighted 


150  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

thought.  He  opened  one;  a  paper  fell  from  it,  ou 
which  was  written  in  an  old-fashioned,  but  familial 
hand,  "Please  accept,  from  a  little,  dried-up,  fussy 
old  woman." 

"JTm  the  April  fool  now,"  he  said,  throwing  the 
volume  angrily  down.  And  if  Miss  Prigott  had 
been  within  reach,  he  would  gladly  have  choked 
her.  He  rushed  from  his  room  in  pursuit  of  sym- 
pathy. But  to  whom  should  he  go?  What  would 
his  mother  say  when  told  that  he  had  applied  such 
epithets  to  a  worthy  old  woman,  her  guest?  As  to 
his  father,  nothing  would  tempt  him  to  face  his 
ridicule.  And  Helen?  She  would  not  know  what 
to  say.  But  there  was  Lucy;  she  knew  all  about 
it:  he  flew  to  her. 

*'  I've  gone  to  bed,"  she  cried  out,  as  he  assailed 
her  door. 

"Get  up,  then,  and  dress  yourself" 

"Oh,  Charles!" 

"  I  sha'n't  sleep  a  wink  to-night,  if  you  don't." 

Thus  adjured,  Lucy  rose,  threw  on  her  dressing- 
gown,  and  opened  the  door.  He  rushed  in,  candlo 
in  hand,  and  held  up  the  paper  before  her  eyes. 
On  reading  it,  Lucy  could  hardly  help  laughing 
but  on  the  other  hand  she  felt  for  Charles  in  hia 
mortification. 

"Between  Miss  Prigott  and  me,  you  fare  prettj 
badly,"  she  said. 


GOOD  INTENTIONS,   IF  NOT  GOOD  WORKS.     151 

"You!  You  are  an  angel  compared  with  herl 
Was  there  ever  anything  so  mean?  But  I  won*t 
keep  her  old  books !  I'll  lay  them  on  the  floor  out- 
side her  door.  If  she  falls  over  them  in  the  morning 
and  breaks  her  neck,  it  won't  be  my  fault." 

Lucy  deliberated  a  little  before  she  replied.  From 
what  she  knew  of  Miss  Prigott,  she  felt  pretty  sure 
that  she  had  sent  the  books  as  a  peace-offering.  It 
was  mistaken  kindness,  certainly;  but  then,  if  kind- 
ness, it  should  be  received  as  such. 

*'  I  am  sorry  for  you,"  said  she :  "  I  know  just 
how  you  feel.  A  box  on  the  ear  wouldn't  be  half 
BO  irritating.  But  I  do  believe  Miss  Prigott  meant 
kindly.  And  if  I  were  you,  I  would  let  it  go  at 
that." 

"  Do  you  call  it  kind  to  make  a  fellow  feel  like  a 
fool?" 

"  But  if  she  did  not  intend  to  make  you  feel  so  ? 
And  I  do  not  think  she  did." 

"How  should  you  feel  to  be  served  so?" 

"  I  should  feel  badly;  but  I  would  try  to  make  the 
best  of  it.  To-night  I  would  sleep  over  it,  at  any 
rate."  Her  friendly,  kind  tones  soothed  him  some- 
what. He  took  the  paper  and  went  back  to  hia 
room  in  silence;  and  when  he  met  Miss  Prigott  next 
morning,  her  unconscious  face  confirmed  Lucy's  sug- 
gestion, that  she  had  meant  it  all  in  good  part.  In 
fact,  on  reading  in  her  Bible  that  passage,  "  If  thine 


152  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

enemy  hunger,  feed  him,"  etc.  ;  she  had  resolved  to 
obey  it  literally;  and  while  Charles  was  tossing  im- 
patiently on  his  sleepless  pillow,  she  reposed  peace- 
fully on  hers,  in  the  blissful  conviction  that  she  had 
accomplished  a  deed  as  Christian  as  it  was  ingenious 
and  witty. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


TEE  CONSEQUENCES  OF  A  PRESCRIPTION. 


UCY  found  her  position  more  agreeable  noT^ 
that  something  like  an  understanding  waa 
established  between  Miss  Prigott  and  her- 
self. Her  uncle,  too,  became  better  known 
to  her;  and  she  had  occasion  to  regret  the  hasty 
judgment  she  had  formed  against  him  at  the  out 
set.  In  his  great  anxiety  to  spare  the  feelings  of 
his  friends,  he  was  continually  exciting  their  preju 
dice;  one  needed  to  know  him  well  in  order  to  like  him. 
While  he  was  studying  the  best  mode  of  doing  you 
a  favor  without  seeming  to  do  it,  Miss  Prigott  would 
hop  on  to  the  field  with  her  little  brisk  figure,  aud 
force  that  same  favor  down  your  unwilling  throat 
Perhaps  you  are  strangled  in  the  efi'ort  to  swallow 
it.  But  she'll  never  know  it;  so  there's  no  great 
harm  done. 
"You   nfiust  take   a  toaspoonful   of  this  mixture 


154  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

every  hour,"  Dr.  Thornton  said  to  Lucy  on  the  next 
visit;  and  all  that  day  she  was  asking  somebody 
what  o'clock  it  was. 

"She  needs  a  watch  of  her  own,"  thought  hei 
uncle. 

"She  ought  to  have  a  watch,"  likewise  decided 
Miss  Prigott.  And  while  Mr.  Whittier  edged  to- 
wards the  subject  by  asking  Lucy  how  she  expected 
to  manage  in  the  night  without  one,  and  deliberately 
went  from  place  to  place  in  search  of  a  particular, 
not  expensive  kind.  Miss  Prigott  was  hurrying 
through  Broadway  as  fast  as  horses  could  carry  her, 
and  had  selected,  triumphed  over,  and  put  into 
Lucy's  hands  an  article,  expensive,  ornamental,  and 
every  way  unsuitable. 

Poor  Lucy's  grateful  heart  ached  with  more  than 
one  emotion,  and  she  needed  nothing  now  to  keep 
her  awake  that  night.  That  such  a  sura  should  be 
expended  for  her  by  an  almost  stranger,  was  of  itself 
a  pain;  but  to  own  such  a  watch  when  her  father 
even  had  none;  when  her  mother  stood  in  such 
pressing  need  of  almost  everything  money  could  pur- 
chase ;  when  Rebecca  and  Hatty  were  going  so  poorly 
clad  1  She  lay  and  thought  what  books  could  have 
been  provided  Arthur  with  a  tithe  of  this  expense; 
what  a  shawl  she  could  have  given  the  doctor's  wife; 
what  hosts  of  neat,  comfortable  garments  for  the 
children!     And   let   no  one   deetn   this   ingratitude. 


THE  CONSEQUENCES   OF   A  PRESCRIPTION.      155 

Her  heart  was  more  than  fail  of  thankfulness;  ii 
only  shrank  from  so  much  selfish  pleasure.  Of  her- 
self she  did  not  once  think.  "  This  for  mother,  that 
for  Arthur,"  was  the  sura  of  the  matter.  She  passed 
the  night  in  great  perplexity,  but  towards  morning, 
coming  to  the  resolution  to  speak  freely  to  her  uncle 
on  the  subject,  she  grew  easier  and  fell  asleep.  When 
he  came  to  pay  his  usual  visit  before  going  out,  she 
drew  the  watch  from  her  pillow  and  placed  it  in  hia 
hand. 

"  Why,  where  did  this  come  from  ? "  he  cried. 

She  told  him,  watching  his  face  as  she  did  so. 
It  expressed  anything  but  approbation  or  pleasure. 
Lucy  even  fancied  she  heard  him  say  something 
about  "these  officious  old  maids;"  but  she  was  not 
sure. 

"What  shall  I  do  about  it,  uncle?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  enjoy  it,"  he  returned. 

"But  how  can  I  enjoy  it,  when" — she  hesitated. 
In  the  middle  of  the  night  it  had  seemed  the 
easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  open  her  heart  to 
her  uncle,   but  now  it  was   quite   another   afikir. 

"Come,  tell  me  the  rest,"  said  he. 

"Dear  uncle,  I  was  thinking  of  the  time  when 
my  father  sold  his  watch,  and  how  mother  cried, 
because  it  had  been  lier  father's  once,  and  then  to 
think  of  my  having  one,  worth,  I  don't  know  how 
many  such  as  that !  " 


156  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"Your  father  sold  that  watch!"  cried  her  uncle 
*My  fathers  watch  sold!'' 

"It  was  to  get  things  for  Rebecca,  when  she 
was  sick,"  said  Lucy,  humbly.  "  She  was  out  of 
health  for  three  years.  Father  made  a  crib  foi 
her,  with  rockers,  and  we  used  to  take  turns  rock- 
ing her  when  she  was  in  pain.  And  her  appetite 
was  so  poor  all  that  time,  that  mother  could  hard- 
ly persuade  her  to  eat  enough  to  keep  her  alive. 
So   one   day — I   shall   never   forget   it — father  went 

to  H ,  about  five  miles  from   us;  and  when  he 

came  home  he  had  oranges  and  other  nice  things 
for  Rebecca.  She  began  to  gain  strength  after  that. 
The  orange-juice  seemed  to  refresh  her  so  much. 
Father  sat  watching  her  as  she  took  it,  and 
looked  so  happy,  and  yet  so  pale.  We  did  not 
know  then  that  he  had  sold  his  watch,  and  we 
wondered  what  made  mother  cry." 

Her  uncle  covered  his  face  with  his  hands;  but 
Lucy  knew  that  he  was  in  tears. 

"Oh,  uncle!  must  I  keep  it?"  said  she. 

"We'll  think  it  over,"  he  answered.  "I  hardly 
see  what  else  you  can  do.  Miss  Prigott  intended 
to  do  you  a  favor;  you  must  try  to  feel  grateful  to 
herj' 

«*0h,  I  do  feel  grateful!  So  grateful  that  I  ache;' 
cried  Lucy,  putting  both  hands  on  her  breast. 

He  kissed  her,  and  left  the  room. 


THE   CONSEQUENCES  OF  A  PRESCRIPTION.      157 

There  had  been  nothing  gained  by  the  inter 
view,  she  thought.  She  reproached  herself  foi 
having  betrayed  that  point  in  their  family  history; 
wondered  how  she  came  to  do  so;  accused  herself 
of  always  telling  things  she  ought  not;  wished — oh, 
how  fervently ! — that  she  could  fly  to  her  mother's 
sympathy  and  counsel,  and  so  find  rest.  But  now 
Miss  Prigott  came  to  flutter  about  her  room,  and 
to  make  herself,  in  spite  of  her  good  qualities,  aa 
undesirable  a  companion  as  ever. 

"You  look  feverish,  my  dear,"  she  said;  "let 
me  feel  your  pulse.  It  is  as  irregular  as  possible. 
Have  you  had  any  more  of  those  pains  in  your 
chest?" 

*'  Only  pangs  of  gratitude,"  said  Lucy,  trying 
desperately  to  smile. 

*'My  love,  let  us  drop  that  subject;"  and  the 
thin  bony  hand  waved  it  ofi"  into  the  air.  "I 
have  never  told  you  anything  about  my  school- 
days,  I   think." 

"No,  and  I  have  so  wished  you  would  I** 

"Why  didn't  you  ask  me  then?" 

"I  thought  you  had  some  reason  for  not  doing 
,'t,  after  you  said  my  mother  was  a  school-mate  of 
yours.     I  kept  hoping  you  would  speak  of  her." 

"There's  nothing  special  to  tell  about  ^er,"  said 
Miss  Prigott,  her  old  dry  manner  coming  back. 
^Indeed,    I    scarcely    remember    her    at    all.      She 


158  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

was  a  great  beauty,  forsooth,  and  an  independent 
piece.     Somewhat  of  a  romp,  too." 

"Mrs.  Lee  said  she  was  remarkable  for  her  fine 
spirits." 

"Yes,  yes,  a  regular  hoyden,  I  remember,  she 
was." 

"Mrs.  Lee  did  not  say  so,"  said  Lucy,  uneasily. 

"My  dear,  Mrs.  Lee  minces  matters.  That's  her 
way.  Now  I  recollect  distinctly  that  although  your 
mother  and  Mrs.  Lee  were  both  members  of  the 
Church,  they  used  to  amuse  themselves  by  throw- 
ing beans  and  peas  at  the  other  girls." 

Lucy  laughed,  privately,  down  among  the  pillows, 
but  the  little  sharp  eyes  detected  her  in  the  act. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  she  inquired. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  It  seems  so  funny  that  my 
mother  should  ever  have  thrown  peas  at  people;" 
and  this  time  she  laughed  heartily. 

"Funny!  It  was  a  very  rude,  improper  thing. 
And  they  members  of  the  Church  1'' 

"I  don't  see  what  that  had  to  do  with  it,"  said 
Lucy,  turning  restlessly  on  her  pillow. 

Miss  Prigott  looked  things  unutterable,  as  sho 
always  did  when  pushed  into  a  corner. 

"  Of  course,  there's  no  use  in  arguing  with  you^' 
sho  said. 

"  But,  Miss  Prigott,"  said  Helen,  who  had  been 
gpreatly  amused  by  this  conversation,  "  do  you  mean 


THE   CONSEQUENCES   OF  A  PRESCRIPTION.      15^ 

fcc  say  it  is  a  sin  to  throw  beans  and  peas  at 
people  ? " 

"No,  I  don't." 

"  Then  why  shouldn't  members  of  the  Church  dc 
it,  as  well  as  other  people?" 

"  Because  it  is  not  becoming." 

'*  It  is  not  becoming  to  anybody,  I  suppose.  Bui 
if  being  a  member  of  a  church  is  going  to  make  it 
wicked  for  me  to  laugh,  and  all  that,  I'm  glad  I  am 
not  one;  that's  all." 

Lucy's  eyes  rested  on  Helen  long  after  this  remark 
was  made.  There  was  a  levity  in  its  tone  that  pained 
ner.  Helen  felt  the  look,  fidgeted  under  it,  pretended 
not  to  observe  it,  but  at  last  cried,  *'What  are  you 
looking  at  me  so  for?" 

"I'll  tell  you,  some  time,"  said  Lucy. 

*'  Well,  to  return  to  your  mother,"  said  Miss  Prigott. 
"  I  remember  she  used  to  be  after  the  young  men  a 
great  deal." 

"Mrs.  Lee  said  they  used  to  be  after  her,"  said 
Lucy. 

"  Well,  that's  the  same  thing." 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"And  let  me  tell  you  how  she  got  me  into  dis 
grace  once.  I  was  studying  grammar;  I  came  to  a 
word  I  could  not  parse,  and  as  she  sat  near  me,  1 
asked  her  about  it.  She  told  me.  Just  then  ouj 
teacher  observed  us  speaking,  and  marked  us  both 


160  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

That  mark  ruined  me.  I  never  had  had  one 
lefore." 

'*  But  I  don't  see  how  my  mother  was  to  blame," 
said  Lucy. 

"  Oh,  of  course  not.     She's  your  mother." 

"Yes;  my  mo^Aer,"  repeated  Lucy  softly;  yet  con- 
centrating in  her  tone  so  much  reverent  affection, 
that  Miss  Prigott  was  struck  dumb. 

"Well,  well!  she  was  the  flower  of  the  school, 
everybody  agreed ! "  said  she  at  last.  "  Beautiful, 
and  talented,  and  I  don't  know  what  not.  And 
she  might  have  married  the  President,  for  aught 
I  know.  But  she  chose  to  go  and  throw  herself 
away  on  a  man  nobody  knew ;  a  divinity  student 
he  was." 

"  On  my  father ! "  cried  Lucy.  *'  Oh,  Miss  Prigott! 
Please  don't  say  any  more !  I  can't  lie  here  and  hear 
you  say  such  things  1 " 

"Dear  me!"  said  Miss  Prigott,  looking  round 
astonished;  "did  I  say  anything?" 

"1  know  you  don't  mean  to  be  unkind;  but  you 
are.  You  do  say  such  strange  things!  And  Mrs. 
Lee  says  my  father  would  have  made  a  distinguished 
man  if  he  had  not  lost  his  health,  teaching  to  obtain 
means  for  his  education,  and  all  that." 

"Oh,  of  course.  Everybody  knew  that.  But  what 
did  he  go  and  lose  his  health  for?  That  was  the 
most  foolish  thing  he  could  have  done." 


THE   CONSEQUENCES   OF  A  PRESCRIPTION.      161 

"  Lucy  looks  very  tired,"  said  Helen,  "  and  mamma 
charged  me  to  keep  her  quiet.  She  was  obliged  to 
go  out  on  business.  There  was  a  great  fire  last  night, 
and  some  of  her  poor  folks  were  turned  adrift." 

Miss  Prigott  caught  at  this  intelligence  with 
alacrity. 

"Why  didn't  she  take  me?"  she  cried.  "I'll  go 
this  minute.  Lucy,  my  dear,  do  you  think  you 
could  spare  me  a  little  while?" 

Lucy  smiled  her  assent,  and  had  the  satisfaction 
of  hearing  the  door  speedily  close  upon  the  active 
little  figure,  that  sped  so  zealously  on  deeds  of 
mercy. 

**  How  tired  you  look! "  said  Helen,  kindly.  "She'll 
kill  you,  I'm  sure.'* 

Lucy  lay  still  and  made  no  answer.  She  felt  two- 
thirds  "killed"  already. 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you?"  asked 
Helen,  kneeling  by  the  side  of  her  couch. 

Lucy  looked  up  and  smiled. 

"  Dear  Helen,  there  is  one  thing.  If  you  would 
just  read  to  me  a  little.     One  or  two  hymns." 

Helen  took  Lucy's  little  hymn  book,  and  began 
to  read.  The  book  was  full  of  marks;  she  read 
wherever  she  found  one. 

"  These  very  hymns  were  my  favorites  once,"  said 
she. 

"And  are  not  now?" 


162  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"No,  not  so  very,"  said  Helen,  shrugging  hei 
fihoulders  a  little,  according  to  her  wont. 

"  I  thought — I  hoped  you  were  a  Christian,'*  said 
Lucy  sadly. 

"I  thought  so  once,  myself.  As  little  while  ago 
as  when  I  was  sick.  But  it  all  passed  away  as  soon 
as  I  got  well.     And  now,  I'm  as  bad  as  ever." 

"Oh,  Helen!  And  yet  you  seem  in  such  good 
spirits  I " 

Mrs.  Whittier  now  returned  from  her  morning 
labors,  and  came  at  once  to  see  Lucy. 

"They  have  not  been  good  nurses,  I  fear,"  she 
Baid.     "  You  look  worn  and  tired." 

"Miss  Prigott  fretted  her,"  said  Helen. 

"I  charged  her  to  avoid  exciting  subjects.  She 
said  she  would  enliven  Lucy  by  talking  of  her 
mother." 

"Lucy  has  been  enlivened  to  the  last  degree," 
said  Helen.  "Miss  Prigott  was  determined  to  tor- 
ment her  to  death;  but  I  drove  her  off." 

"  You  shall  have  some  rest  now,  then,"  said  Mta 
Whittier.     "Come,  Helen." 

Helen  waited  a  moment;  stooped  down  to  kiss 
Lucy,  and  whispered,  hastily:  "But  I  am  not  in 
good  spirits;"  then  followed  her  mother. 

Left  alone,  after  her  long,  sleepless  night,  Lucy 
lay  quietly,  and  tried  to  rest.  Anxious  thoughts 
about  home  assailed  her ;  the  watch,  ticking  beneath 


THE   CONSEQUENCES  OF  A  PRESCRIPTION.      163 

her  pillow,  wearied  her;  above  all,  Helen's  last  re- 
mark disturbed  her  serenity.  She  opened  her  pre- 
cious little  "Daily  Food,"  and  read  here  and  there 
a  verse  till  her  heart  found  repose,  though  her  head 
throbbed  with  fatigue  and  pain. 

"Lying  here,  doing  nothing,  is  the  hardest  work 
I  ever  did  in  my  life,"  she  said  to  her  aunt,  when 
two  hours  later  she  crept  softly  in. 

"Have  you  slept  at  all,  to-day?"  her  aunt  in- 
quired. 

"No,  aunt,  I  think  not.  But  I  don't  mind  it. 
Pray,  don't  look  so  anxious." 

"Shall  you  be  glad  or  sorry  to  learn  that  Misa 
Prigott  is  to  leave  us  to-day?" 

"  To-day ! "  cried  Lucy.  "  I  don't  know.  I  hoped 
to  get  well,  and  to  be  of  some  comfort  to  her.  I 
do  not  know  how,  exactly;  but  she  has  been  very 
kind  to  me." 

"Mrs.  Lee  has  just  been  here,  and  has  insisted 
on  taking  Miss  Prigott  home  with  her.  She  says 
you  never  will  get  well  with  her  hanging  about 
you.     And  I  am  not  sure  she  isn't  right." 

"  Oh,  pray,  pray  don't  let  her  go  on  my  account ! 
I  never  shall  get  well  if  she  does." 

"  Don't  be  uneasy,  my  dear.  She  is  fond  of  vis 
iting  her  friends;  and  Mrs.  Lee  is  always  hospitable 
and  full  of  company.  It  will  be  a  good  thing  foi 
all  parties." 


164  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

Lucy  said  no  more,  but  she  felt  sadly  disturbed, 
and  even  guilty. 

"Why  can't  I  love  poor  Miss  Prigott  better?' 
she  asked  herself.  *' She's  so  kind,  and  has  been 
so  friendly!  * 

Yet,  in  spite  of  the  question  and  the  shame,  the 
certainty  that  Miss  Prigott  was  going,  proved  sooth- 
ing. Under  its  influence  her  weary  eyelids  closed, 
and  she  slept  quietly.  Miss  Prigott  stole  in  on 
tiptoe  to  take  a  farewell  look,  and  kneeling  down 
by  her  side,  lifted  the  thin  hand  tenderly,  and  kissed 
it  more  than  once.  They  all  flattered  themselves 
that  everything  had  been  so  skilfully  arranged,  that 
the  unsuspicious  little  woman  was  going  in  blissful 
ignorance  of  the  facts  of  the  case.  But  she  had 
overheard  an  incautious  whisper  of  Helen's;  had 
learned  that  they  believed  her  absence  essential  to 
Lucy's  recovery,  and  her  kind,  busy  heart  was  full. 
She  said  not  a  word,  but  speedily  made  her  ar- 
rangements for  leaving,  and  when  Lucy  awoke, 
she  was  already  on  her  way.  Lying  back  in  the 
carriage,  with  firmly-closed  eyes,  she  was  lost  in 
a  painful  reverie. 

*'From  the  very  first  hour  I  loved  that  young 
girl ! "  she  said  within  herself ;  "  and  my  foolish 
old  heart  hoped  for  love  in  retura  So  it  is  aftet 
fifty  years'  experience  of  life;  I  am  still  childish, 
Btill  hopeful,  yet  still  disappointed." 


THE   CONSEQUENCES  OF  A  PRESCRIPTION.      165 

Two  or  three  tears  wet  the  faded,  wrinkled  cheeky 
and  humble,  gentle  emotions  came  with  them.  Mrs 
Lee  was  struck  with  the  subdued,  mild  air,  so  un 
usual  and  so  unexpected,  and  went  as  far  as  pos 
sible  in  kindly  attentions  to  her  guest. 

'  I  shall  not  trouble  you  long,"  said  Miss  Prigott. 
*My  room  will  soon  be  ready  for  me,  in  the  coun 
try,  and  I  shall  go  there  in  a  few  days." 

"  It  is  too  cold  for  the  country  as  yet,"  said  Mrs. 
Lee.  "I  hope  you  will  spend  some  weeks  with 
me." 

Miss  Prigott  was  silent,  and  a  dejected  air  hung 
unnaturally  about  her.  Mrs.  Lee  sent  for  her  little 
children,  with  whom  she  knew  no  one  could  long 
remain  melancholy.  They  came  smiling  in;  and 
Miss  Prigott  soon  had  one,  a  plump,  happy  little 
creature,  upon  a  table  before  her,  and  was  feeding 
it  with  sugar-plums,  with  which  she  always  went 
armed. 

"  You  don't  know  where  I've  been ! "  said  the 
little  one,  archly. 

"Where  was  it?"  asked  Miss  Prigott. 

*'  To  a  wedding !     To  my  cousin  Mary's  wedding !  " 

"Well,  when  I  am  married,  will  you  come  to 
mine  { 

"  Oh,  yoiHU  never  be  married !  "  said  the  child, 
opening  its  astonished  eyes  very  wide,  and  survey 
ing  the  old,  yellow,  wrinkled  face. 


166  .  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

The  expectation  of  such  an  event  formed  no  part 
of  Miss  Prigott's  thoughts;  yet  the  words  of  the 
child  jarred  painfully  on  her  ear.  To  her  excited 
fancy  they  seemed  to  say,  "Nobody  can  love 
youT'  and  so,  cheerless  and  solitary,  she  went  to 
Ler  bed. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


THE  STORM  BEFORE  THE  CALM. 


HETHER  owing  to  Miss  Prigott's  depart 
ure,  or  to  a  favorable  change  in  the 
weather,  Lucy  began  rapidly  to  improve. 
Dr.  Thornton's  visits  became  few  and 
short,  and  at  length  ceased;  some  reading  was  now 
allowed;  letters  home  could  once  more  be  written, 
and  her  life  was  busy  and  agreeable.  It  waa 
decided  between  Dr.  Thornton  and  her  aunt,  that 
she  must  not  return  home  for  some  months;  and 
Helen  was  revelling  in  the  thought  that  during 
their  summer  journeys  she  would  be  with  them. 
The  letters  from  home  all  assured  Lucy  that  she 
was  not  needed  there;  every  one  rejoiced  that  she 
could  be  spared  from  among  them,  for  this  neces- 
sary season  of  refreshment  and  repose. 

One  evening  Helen  came  to  sit  with   Lucy,   and 
they  talked  over  their  summer  plans  together. 
'  We  must  take  book?  with  us,"  said  Helen.      ••  1 


166  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

am  sure  I  don't  know  what;  but  books  we  must 
have." 

Lucy  named  several  she  wished  to  take;  one 
of  them  was  "The  Imitation  of  Christ." 

"That's  as  dry  as  chips,"  said  Helen.  "How 
can  you  want  to  read  such  books?" 

"It  doesn't  seem  dry  to  me,"  said  Lucy;  "if  it 
did,  perhaps  I  should  not  care  to  read  it." 

**  But  it  puzzles  me  when  I  see  how  interested 
you  are  in  religious  books.  I  don't  understand  it. 
For  even  when  I  was  thinking  myself  a  Christian, 
I  must  own  they  did  seem  dry." 

"  What,  (M  religious  books  ?  " 

Helen  deliberated  a  little. 

"Yes,  all;  unless  I  except  some  few  hymns." 

"Perhaps  your  youth  is  to  blame  for  that.  I 
don't  know.  T  am  pretty  sure  there  was  a  time 
when  I  did  not  relish  Thomas  h.  Kempis,  because 
I  did  not  understand  him." 

"  But  I  did  not  like  those  I  did  understand,  very 
well.  If  I  had  taken  my  choice,  I  should  have  read 
nothing  but  stories  and  poems,  and  so  on.  Novels 
I  am  not  allowed  to  read  yet." 

Lucy  made  no  reply.  She  felt  puzzled  in  her 
turn,  now. 

"Do  tell  me,"  said  Helen  abruptly,  "do  tell  me 
one  thing;  that  is,  if  you  are  willing:  Do  you  really 
like  to  read  relit>:ious  books?" 


THE    STORM    BEFORE    THE    CALM.  169 

**Ye8,  I  really  do." 

Helen  sighed.  "And  do  you  like  the  pirns  talk 
these  good  sort  of  people  forever  keep  up?" 

*'I  do  when  it  comes  right  out  of  their  hearts.  1 
don't  like  anything  that  isn't  genuine." 

"And  you  enjoy  Miss  Prigott's  cant,  a;nd  all 
that?" 

"No,  I  did  not  say  I  like  'cant.'" 

*'But  do  tell  me;  am  I  such  a  heathen?  Am  I 
Bo  much  worse  than  you?  For  such  talk  as  Misa 
Prigott's  enrages  me.  I  can't  bear  it.  She  might 
talk  to  me  forever,  and  do  me  no  good.  When  I 
am  with  her,  I  feel  that  I  never  want  to  be  a 
Christian.'* 

**0h,  dear!  what  shall  I  say?  I  am  not  much 
older  than  you,  Helen;  I  am  not  fit  to  talk  with 
you.  But  surely  it  is  not  Miss  Prigott's  religion 
that  makes  her  disagreeable.  You  don't  know  how 
much  worse  she  might  be  without  it." 

"  So  mamma  says.  But,  Lucy,  do  let  me  ask  one 
question  more.  You  needn't  answer  it  if  you  don't 
wish  to;  but  I  do.  so  long  to  know."  She  crept 
close  to  Lucy's  ear  and  whispered,  '*If  you  knew 
you  could  get  to  heaven  with  just  what  goodness 
you  have  now,  should  you  still  keep  one  praying 
and  trying  to  grow  better?" 

"I  should  not  wisli  to  live  another  moment  if 
I  could  not  pray,"  said  Lucy,  earnestly. 


170  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"Then  there  is  something  in  religion,  after  all 
And  something  I  know  nothing  about.  Ch,  Lucyl 
Beeing  you  from  day  to  day  has  made  me  so  dis- 
satisfied with  myself;  has  put  such  new  thoughts 
in  my  mind  I  " 

She  retired  to  her  room,  and  there  threw  herself 
across  her  bed,  in  tears.  Her  life  seemed  to  her 
full  of  mistakes,  full  of  contradictions,  full  of  sins. 
She  thought  she  would  give  all  she  possessed  in  the 
world  for  that  peace  with  God  that  Lucy  under- 
stood, while  to  her  it  was  such  a  mystery.  Under 
neath  her  misery,  however,  lay  a  latent  satisfaction 
with  the  tears  she  was  shedding.  She  had  a  vague 
hope  that  they  were  tokens  of  penitence,  and  seals 
of  her  acceptance  with  God.  For  the  moment,  she 
forgot  that  her  room  had  witnessed  many  scenes 
like  this. 

Lucy,  meanwhile,  had  closed  her  door,  and  was 
thanking  God  that  He  had  used  her  in  the  accom- 
plishment of  one  of  His  designs.  She  felt  humbled 
by  His  goodness;  and  it  seemed  to  her,  that  if  He 
would  only  take  her  and  use  her  just  as  He  pleased, 
and  let  her  do  something  for  Him  who  had  done  so 
much  for  her,  she  could  ask  no  higher  happiness. 
When  they  met  again,  Helen  appeared  very  much 
as  usual;  but  there  was  a  new  expression  of  holy 
peace  and  gratitude  on  Lucy's  face.  Helen  observed 
it  with   a   pang. 


THE    STORM    BEFORE    THE    CALM.  171 

"  Why  cannot  I  feel  as  she  does  ?  "  she  asked  her- 
Bfclf.  Ever  since  Lucy's  arrival,  she  had  watched 
and  unconsciously  studied  her.  She  had  loved  her 
from  almost  the  first  hour,  and  admired  her  too;  and 
the  next  step  after  love  and  admiration,  is  imitation. 
She  wished  herself  like  Lucy.  But  in  many  things 
Helen  was  a  mere  child.  Life  had  always  smiled 
on  her,  and  had  given  her  all  she  asked  for;  she 
had  never  known  a  real  sorrow  or  a  real  privation ; 
nor  had  she  been  obliged  to  put  forth  an  effort  to 
win  a  desired  object.  But  the  "  kingdom  of  heaven 
suffereth  violence,  and  the  violent  take  it  by  force." 

"I  shall  not  rest  till  all  is  right  with  me,"  she 
said  one  day  to  Lucy,  in  answer  to  an  anxious  look. 
She  was  dancing  and  singing  about  the  house  at 
the  moment,  and  in  no  mood  to  be  restrained  even 
by  a  look.  But  though  it  half-displeased,  it  drove 
her  to  her  room  and  to  her  knees,  and  for  a  brief 
season  to  reflection. 

Not  an  hour  after,  she  came  to  Lucy  with  tickets 
for  a  concert  in  her  hand. 

"See!"  she  cried  joyously,  *' tickets  for  the  con- 
cert this  evening!  Papa  took  the  trouble  to  go  to 
Dr.  Thornton,  to  ask  if  you  might  venture  out,  and 
he  says  you  may  go — in  the  carriage,  of  course. 
Isn't  it  delightful!" 

Lucy  laid  aside  the  book  she  was  reading,  and 
looked  at  the  tickets  in  silence. 


172  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

*'  Why,  I  thought  you  would  be  so  pleased ! "  said 
Helen  in  a  disappointed  tone.  "  I  took  it  for  granted 
you  had  never  heard  fine  music,  and  that,  after  be. 
ing  cooped  up  so  long,  it  would  be  delicious  to  get 
out  once  more!" 

"  Deal  Helen,  and  so  it  would,  if  I  were  sure — if 
I  only  knew  certainly  one  thing.  If  all  is  right 
with  you!" 

Helen  colored.  She  felt  irritated  and  embar- 
rassed. 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  driven  in  this  way.  You  are 
getting  as  bad  as  Miss  Prigott.  Stiff  and  prim ! 
Tm  sure  I  did  not  dream  of  committing  a  sin  in 
just  going  to  a  concert!" 

Amid  her  anger  she  saw  Lucy's  face,  so  grieved, 
yet  so  loving,  so  lovely !  It  haunted  her  as  she 
flew  back  to  her  room,  and  for  a  season  it  made  her 
indignant  tears  flow  faster.  Meanwhile  Lucy  sat 
as  one  benumbed.  All  had  passed  so  rapidly  that 
she  could  hardly  realize  that  a  great  breach  separ- 
ated her  from  Helen;  that  her  dearest  friend  in  all 
this  great  busy  city  was  alienated  from  her,  perhaps 
forever. 

"Have  I  done  wrong?"  asked  her  bewildered 
conscience;  and  she  knew  not  what  to  say.  She 
thought  it  all  OT'-er;  tried  to  recall  her  words,  and 
tones,  and  looks. 

*'I   am  always    making   mistakes!"  she    said    to 


THE    STORM    BEFORE    THE    CALM.  173 

herself;  "always.  And  now  I've  offended  Helen, 
and  have  done  so  much  harm !  '* 

Great  sorrows  drive  every  Christian  to  God;  but 
we  are  only  too  prone  to  try  to  bear  our  little  trials 
alone.  We  fancy  such  petty  affairs  beneath  His 
notice.  Yet,  may  it  not  one  day  appear  that  the 
mountain  was  after  all  only  a  hillock;  the  great 
burden  but  a  grain  of  sand?  We  must  throw  our- 
selves as  children  upon  Him.  We  must  be  willing 
to  consult  His  pleasure  in  the  meanest  affair  of  life; 
to  seek  His  compassion  and  sympathy  in  ^^  every 
pain  we  bear."  Let  Him  be  the  judge  of  theif 
worth  and  consequence,  and  perhaps  He  who  seetb 
not  as  man  seeth,  will  detect  the  mountain  in  what 
is  called  the  hillock,  and  mark  that  as  our  intoler 
able  burden,  that  men  regard  as  the  small  dust  of 
the  balance. 

Lucy  struggled  to  recover  herself,  in  vain.  In 
vain  she  assured  herself  that  such  a  little  affair  was 
not  worth  praying  about.  Perhaps  there  was  a 
vague  notion  in  her  mind,  that  she  would  not  havo 
dared  shape  into  words — that  God  should  not  be 
required  to  note  our  petty  cares  and  wants.  These 
are  not  humble  views  of  ourselves  and  our  interests; 
they  are  low,  inadequate  views  of  Him. 

But  at  last  she  laid  aside  her  book,  in  which  she 
had  tried  to  forget  herself,  rose  hesitatingly,  closed  hei 
door,  and  stood  leaning  against  it,  as  if  st''l  in  doubt 


174  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

Why  should  she  linger?  Had  she  not  borne  to 
the  ear  of  her  Father  more  than  one  trial,  not 
greater  than  this? 

"  I  micst  find  comfort  somewhere ! "  she  cried  at 
last;  and  now  she  was  on  her  knees;  and  now  she 
confessed  her  ignorance,  and  sought  direction,  and 
did  find  comfort.  Then  seating  herself  at  her  table 
she  wrote  a  little  pencilled  note  to  Helen,  so  kind,  so 
loving,  so  Christian !  surely  this  must  prevail !  She 
went  to  Helen's  door,  and  knocked.  There  was 
no  answer.  She  tried  to  open  it;  it  was  locked. 
She  waited  a  moment;  then  pushing  her  little  note 
under  the  door,  into  the  room,  she  retired. 

Helen  had  shed  floods  of  passionate  tears,  and 
was  sitting  forlorn  and  wretched  at  her  window, 
whence  she  could  look  down  into  the  street.  She 
watched  the  passers-by  with  a  moody,  unsympathiz- 
ing  air;  even  with  a  sort  of  disgust  at  their  life  and 
activity  when  her  own  soul  felt  so  dead.  Perhaps 
every  one  of  these  objects  of  her  contempt  would 
have  gladly  exchanged  the  home  to  which  his  feet 
were  bearing  him  for  that  of  Helen.  Very  few,  if 
any  among  them  were  hastening  to  such  an  apart- 
ment as  that  she  now  occupied;  not  one  towards  a 
larger,  a  more  airy,  or  more  luxurious.  There  goea 
a  little  figure,  almost  bent  double  with  age  and  in- 
firmity. A  basket  is  in  its  hand,  from  which,  ofi*  a 
ftone  step,  apples  and  candies  have   been  patientlj 


THE    STORM    BEFORE    THE    CALM.  175 

«old  all  day.  There  is  a  home  for  that  all  day 
houseless  head;  it  lies  down,  down  that  long,  dirty 
street,  and  up,  up,  up  those  narrow,  noisome  stairs; 
and  in  that  close  and  crowded  room.  Wicked  chil- 
dren quarrel  and  shriek  all  through  that  street; 
every  door  sends  out  half  a  dozen  of  them,  with 
white  heads,  and  grimy  faces,  and  bare  legs  and 
feet.  Children  of  larger  growth,  too,  congregate  at 
all  the  corners;  heads  not  so  white,  faces  not  so 
grimy,  legs  and  feet  not  bare;  yet  the  defilement 
from  within  staring  from  the  red  eyes;  and  the 
voices  harsher,  the  words  more  profane,  the  whole 
air  more  revolting.  Floods  of  liquid  filth  flow  down 
this  street,  unfit  for  the  abode  of  savages  or  wild 
beasts,  and  sin  and  sorrow  and  clamor  and  crime 
brood  over  it,  and  claim  it  as  their  own.  Yet  hero 
the  sweet  word  "home"  ventures.  Here  the  little 
bent  figure  pauses,  and  has  found  hers.  How 
cheerily  would  she  exchange  it  for  Helen's  abode; 
how  speedily  lay  those  weary  limbs  on  that  soft, 
clean  bed;  how  sure  of  happiness  in  that  stately 
abode!  Yet  if  peace  with  God  has  found  its  way 
into  that  old  heart,  it  may  see  in  Helen  no  object 
of  envy;  and  that  poor  wretched  child  may  gladly 
exchange  all  the  luxuries  of  her  outer  life  for  one 
glimpse  of  the  joy  that  adorns  and  illumines  the 
meanest  Christian  soul! 

"What  harm  is  there  in  going  to  a  concert,"  said 


lib  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

Helen,  "  that  she  need  have  looked  so  solemn  about 
it!  A.nd  I  mean  to  go,  whatever  she  says.  She 
may  stay  at  home  and  mope:  I  don't  care;  I 
tvill  go." 

Something  within  feebly  remonstrated  against  thie 
injustice.  It  said,  "  You  know  perfectly  well  why 
she  wished  you  to  relinquish,  for  once,  even  an 
innocent  pleasure.  You  paved  the  way  for  her  to 
say  what  she  did,  by  your  own  remark." 

She  rose  hastily,  and  left  her  room.  It  was  grow- 
ing dark,  and  she  did  not  observe  the  note  Lucy 
had  placed  beneath  her  door. 

"Are  you  ready  for  the  concert,  dear?"  her 
mother  asked  pleasantly,  as  she  entered  her  room. 

"I  don't  care  about  going;  Lucy  doesn't  seem 
to  wish  to  go." 

*' That's  very  singular.  But  one  dreads  going  out 
after  confinement  to  a  sick-room.  I'll  speak  to  her 
myself." 

"  I  think,  dear,**  she  said,  on  entering  Lucy's  room, 
''that  it  would  really  do  you  good  to  go  out  this 
evening.     Are  you  not  fond  of  music?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  very  fond.  And  I  never  attended  a 
concert  in  my  life." 

"Helen  must  have  misunderstood  you,  then;  she 
fancied  you  did  not  wish  to  go.     It  is  time  to  dress 
we  must  hurry  away,  directly  after  tea." 

"Is  Helen  going,  aunt?" 


THE    STORM    BEFORE    THE    CALM.  177 

"Certainly;  but  she  is  not  dressed,  either.  1 
must  tell  her  there  is  no  time  to  lose." 

"Is  she  really  going,  after  all?"  thought  Lucy 
sadly.     ^^Can  she  go,  and  enjoy  it?" 

She  dressed,  hardly  knowing  what  she  put  on, 
and  went  down  to  tea. 

"Miss  Prigott  ought  to  be  here  to  put  you  to 
rights,"  said  Charles,  as  she  entered  the  room. 

"Why;  is  anything  the  matter?" 

"  No,  only  you  look  as  if  you  had  lost  off  youi 
collar." 

"I  look  as  if  I  hadn't  put  it  on,"  she  answered, 
laughing,  and  running  back  to  supply  the  omission. 

Helen  met  her  on  the  stairs,  and  felt  displeased 
that  she  could  run  joyously  about  the  house,  when 
ehe  hneio  how  miserable  she  was.  She  pushed  by, 
without  a  smile  of  greeting,  and  went  loftily  to  the 
table,  at  which  her  mother  was  now  seated.  Lucy, 
meanwhile,  in  passing  Helen's  room,  saw  her  little 
note  lying  on  the  floor,  and,  hastily  picking  it  up, 
observed  that  it  remained  unopened.  Her  eyea 
filled  with  tears;  she  felt  herself  aggrieved.  On 
seating  herself  at  the  table,  she  saw  that  Helen 
wore  a  resigned,  martyr-like  expression,  and  that 
she  carefully  avoided  every  little  attention  she 
strove  to  pay  her.  If  she  spoke,  Helen  did  not 
hear;  if  she  offered  to  help  her  to  any  article,  she 
did  not  see.     And  when  they  were  all  at  last  seated 


178  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

m  the  carriage,  Helen  was  missing.  Her  father  wai 
not  fond  of  waiting  for  his  family;  he  was  always 
punctual,  and  required  them  to  be  so.  He  ran  im- 
patiently into  the  hall,  where  she  stood  with  her 
bonnet  in  her  hand. 

*'  Why  do  you  keep  us  all  waiting  so  ?  "  he  asked, 
a  little  sharply. 

"I'm  not  going;  I  prefer  to  stay  at  home,"  she 
answered. 

"  Why,  you  foolish  child,  come  along.  You  have 
been  teasing  to  go,  all  this  week." 

"I  shaVt  go;  so  there!'*  She  was  frightened  at 
herself  for  speaking  thus  to  her  father.  He  looked 
highly  displeased,  and  went  out,  closing  the  door 
violently  behind  him. 

"Why;  isn't  she  coming?"  asked  her  mother,  as 
the  carriage  drove  off. 

"No;  she's  getting  amazingly  ill-humored  of 
late." 

"  Don't  let  us  go  without  her ;  I  do  not  think  she's 
well.  She  said  not  a  word  to  me  about  staying  at 
home.  At  least,  not  after  she  found  Lucy  was 
going.'* 

** She's  well  enough;  she's  only  out  of  humoi 
about  something.  I  dare  say  she  repents  by  this 
time  staying  behind.  It  will  be  a  good  lesson  fot 
her." 

"I  should  prefer  to  return,"  said  Mrs.  Whittier 


THE    STORM    BEFORE    THE    CALM.  171) 

He  replied  in  a  low  voice;  Lucy  fancied  he  said 
something  about  "  not  disappointing "  her. 

"Oh,  don't  go  on  nay  account!"  she  cried. 

But  her  uncle  made  no  reply  and  they  drove  on, 
all  thoroughly  uncomfortable,  but  Lucy  most  so  of 
all.  The  brilliantly-lighted,  well-filled  hall,  dazzled 
and  excited  her.  The  youthful  performers,  all  clad 
in  pure  white,  and  making  such  melody  as  she  never 
had  dreamed  of,  seemed  like  angels  in  heaven;  sha 
almost  fancied  herself  there.  How  much  she  would 
have  enjoyed  it,  had  Helen  only  given  her  a  parting 
smile  as  she  came  away;  or  if  she  sat  now  by  hei 
side,  loving  and  joyous  as  was  her  wont  I  Her  aunt 
watched  her,  and  was  pleased  with  her  rapt  atten- 
tion. She  had  a  slight  suspicion  that  all  was  not 
harmony  between  her  and  Helen;  and  if  her  heart 
unconsciously  said,  Lucy  must  be  in  fault,  let  no  one 
smile.  Who  shall  judge  charitably  the  child,  if  not 
the  mother?  As  they  drove  home,  Mr.  Whittiei 
asked : 

"Well,   Lucy!  have   you  enjoyed   the   evening? 

"Yes,  sir,  very  much,"  she  answered. 

"  I'm  afraid  Helen  could  not  have  said  as  much 
if  you  were  left  out  of  an  expected  enjoyment,"  said 
her  aunt,  in  a  tone  half  playful,  half  serious. 

Lucy  colored.  Her  spirit  rose  against  this  unjust 
suspicion.  She  was  on  the  point  of  saying,  *' I  did 
not  deserve  that!"     She  had  been  excited  into  high 


180  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

spirits  by  all  she  had  seen  and  heard  this  evening 
aow   came   the  reaction.     "  This  is  such  a   world ! '' 
was  her  mournful  sigh,  as  she  leaned  back  in  the 
carriage,  restraining  her  tears. 

"Miss  Helen  has  gone  to  her  room,  and  desiies 
aot  to  be  disturbed,"  said  "Jacob  the  black,"  as 
Charles  called  him,  on  opening  the  door  for  their 
admission. 

Without  laying  aside  her  bonnet,  the  anxious 
mother  proceeded  to  Helen's  room.  She  found  her 
lying  on  the  bed,  apparently  asleep;  her  face  looked 
flushed  and  swollen:  she  had  been  weeping — that 
was  plain. 

"Are  you  asleep,  darling?"  she  whispered. 

"No,  mamma,  not  asleep;  but  if  you  would  just 
let  me  alone  this  once!"  she  answered,  peevishly. 

"There  is  something  wrong  here,"  said  her  mo- 
ther, "  and  1  must,  know  what  it  is."  She  placed 
her  candle  on  the  table,  and  deliberately  took 
off  bonnet,  shawl,  and  gloves.  Helen  watched 
her. 

She  understood  the  air  of  decision  with  which  all 
was  quietly  done,  and  a  defiant  spirit  rose  within 
her. 

"I  won't  speak  another  word,"  thought  she. 

"Now,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Whittier,  drawing  a 
comfortable  chair  to  the  side  of  the  bed. 

Helen   had   risen    from    her   recumbent    position. 


THE    STORM    BEFORE    THE    CALM.  181 

She  sat  now  upright  on  the  bed.  Her  eyes  were 
heavy,  and  her  hair  hung  about  her  face,  damp  and 
disordered.  She  looked  steadily  at  her  mother,  but 
was  silent. 

"What  is  the  trouble?"  repeated  Mrs.  Whittier. 
"Is  anything  going  wrong  between  yourself  and 
Lucy?" 

Still  no  answer. 

"  Shall  1  find  the  explanation  in  this  note?"  asked 
her  mother,  taking  from  the  table  Lucy's  note. 

Helen  leaned  over  to  look   at  it.     Surprise   con 
quered  her  resolution  not  to  speak.     "  I  don't  know 
what  that  is!"  she  cried.     "Give  it  to  me,  please." 
She  seized  it  eagerly;  opened  it,  glanced  over  its 
contents,  and  burst  again  into  tears. 

"  May  I  read  it  ?  "  asked  her  mother,  who  was  now 
seriously  concerned.  Helen  wept  on  violently,  and 
made  no  reply;  but  as  she  heard  the  paper  rattle  in 
her  mother's  hands,  she  made  no  effort  to  oppose 
her,  and  it  was  read.  A  loving,  touching  appeal  it 
was:  Mrs.  Whittier's  heart  was  moved;  it  yearned 
towards  Lucy,  to  whom  she  felt  that  she  had  been 
unjust. 

"Oh,  my  daughter!  what  can  you  have  done  to 
giieve  this  sweet  girl?"  she  cried. 

Helen  was  melted  now:  she  tried  to  explain,  but 
her  tears  choked  her.  She  got  up  from  the  bed 
and  threw  herself  into  her  mother's  arms. 


182  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"Oh,  mamma!  I  have  been  so  rude,  so  unkind^ 
to  her!  And  only  because  she  wanted  me  not  tc 
go  to  the  concert." 

"But  I  don't  understand:  why  did  she  wish  you 
not  to  go?" 

"That's  the  worst  part  of  it,  mamma.  It  was 
because  she  was  afraid  it  would  divert  my  mind 
from  something  better.  Ask  her,  mamma;  she  will 
tell  you." 

Mrs.  Whittier  went  at  once  to  Lucy.  She  found 
her  still  up;  reading,  apparently. 

"My  dear  Lucy,  Helen  has  sent  me  to  you. 
She  says  she  has  treated  you  unkindly,  and  seems 
greatly  distressed  about  it.  She  says  you  will  tell 
me  the  whole  affair." 

"It  was  nothing,  dear  aunt;  I  dare  say  I  was 
wrong  myself.  Helen  told  me,  a  few  days  ago, 
that  she  had  once  thought  herself  a  Christian,  but 
that  she  did  not  think  so  now;  and  she  seemed 
thoughtful  at  times,  and  as  if  she  wished  to  be 
one  in  earnest.  And  when  she  said  she  was  go- 
ing to  the  concert,  I  was  afraid  it  would  distract 
her  mind,  and  before  I  knew  it,  I  had  said  some- 
thing— I  do  not  remember  exactly  what — about  hei 
staying  at  home,  and  she  was  hurt;  then  1  was 
BO  sorry ! " 

Her  aunt  kissed    her.      "  May   God   bless  you ! 
ghe  said  fervently:  "I  thank  Him  for  sending  yov 


THE    STORM    BEFORE    THE    CALM.  183 

to  us.  Shall  I  tell  Helen  you  forgive  her;  1  feai 
she  will  hardly  sleep,  otherwise." 

"Dear  aunt!  I  had  nothing  to  forgive!  May  1 
go  to  her,  just  for  one  moment  ? "  Her  aunt  as- 
sented, and  lingered  outside  Helen's  door,  that  they 
might  speak  together  without  restraint;  and  when 
Lucy  came  out,  her  step  was  elastic  as  a  glad 
child's. 

"And  now,  my  dear  Helen,"  said  Mrs.  Whittier, 
''  I  wish  you  to  go  to  bed.  There  must  be  no 
more  of  this  excitement  to-night." 

"Oh,  mamma!  how  can  1  sleep,  after  being  so 
wicked,  so  angry?" 

"Think  of  the  Friend  of  sinners,  my  child." 

"Mamma,  could  you  pray  with  me?  Dear  mam- 
ma, don't  you  think  you  could  ?  " 

Mrs.  Whittier  hesitated.  Only  a  very  few  months 
of  Christian  life  had  she  as  yet  known;  she  had 
never  prayed  with  Helen;  God's  ear  alone  had 
heard  her  petitions  in  her  behalf.  Yet  surely  this 
was  no  time  for  the  dominion  of  earthly  fear;  she 
knelt  with  the  two  hot  hands  in  hers,  and  forgot 
that  she  was  not  alone. 

"  Put  yourself  right  at  the  foot  of  the  cross," 
she  whispered,  as  they  rose  from  their  knees;  "and 
lie  there  this  night." 

"It  is  the  only  place  I'm  fit  for,'*  said  Heleu 
and   thus  penitent  and  humble,  she  retired  to  rest 


184  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

And  in  the  valley  of  humiliation  there  are  green 
pastures,  how  strange  that  one  who  has  reposed 
there  should  ever  pine  for  the  mountain-tops! 

When  Helen  awoke  next  morning,  she  felt  like 
walking  softly  all  day.  She  went  early  to  Lucy's 
door  to  tell  her  how  sorry  she  should  oe,  all  her 
life  long,  for  those  angry  words:  then  to  her  fa- 
ther, with  whom  she  was  so  thankful  to  make 
peace.  Very  sorrowful  indeed  she  seemed  for  many 
days,  and  Lucy  laid  aside  all  other  pursuits  to  de- 
vote herself  to  her.  Together  they  read  the  Bible; 
and  when  Helen  in  a  kind  of  gloomy  despair  sought 
out  and  dwelt  upon  those  passages  that  described 
the  exceeding  sinfulness  of  sin,  Lucy  always  had 
a  host  of  precious  promises  ready  to  meet  them. 
When  Helen  spoke  of  herself,  and  was  sickened 
with  all  she  saw  of  her  own  heart,  Lucy  spoke  of 
Christ,  till  the  glow  and  fervor  of  her  words  awak- 
ened a  kindred  glow  in  her  eager  listener.  Thus 
step  by  step  Helen  was  led  on;  giving  herself  in 
earnest  to  the  influence  of  God's  Spirit,  and  thank- 
ful to  sit  like  a  little  child  at  the  feet  of  any  true 
Christian  who  would  teach  her  the  way  heaven- 
ward. There  was  no  fear  of  her  taste  being  of- 
fended now:  she  was  too  anxious  to  know  and  to 
feel  the  truth,  to  be  fastidious  as  to  tlie  modes 
of  its  reception.  Lucy  saw  with  delight,  almost 
with  enthusiasm,  that  even  Miss  Prigott  was  weL 


THE    STORM    BEFORE    THE    CALM.  185 

corned  and  treated  with  respect;  and  that  her  words 
were  received  with  as  much  gratitude  now,  as  here- 
tofore with  disgust.  And  so  it  will  ever  be  with 
the  earnest  seeker  after  life  eternal.  What  matters 
it  to  the  drowning  man  in  his  extremity,  by  whom 
or  by  what  method,  he  is  saved  from  death?  And 
when  Helen  found  herself  breathing  a  new  atmos- 
phere, and  felt  within  herself  the  first  struggles  of 
Christian  life,  the  affections  of  that  whole  house- 
hold encircled  Lucy  as  the  instrument  in  God's 
hand  of  so  great  a  blessing.  It  was  the  happiest 
hour  she  had  ever  known;  for  the  highest  honor 
God  can  lay  upon  His  children,  is  to  permit  them 
to  do  something  for  Himself. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


CASES  OF  GONSGIENCR 


S  Lucy's  health  continued  to  improve,  she 
began  a  regular  course  of  reading  and 
of  study.  Both  Helen  and  Charles  owned 
books  to  which  she  had  never  before  had 
access;  and  her  old  thirst  for  knowledge,  though  it 
had  lain  silent  during  her  illness,  seemed  to  have 
gained  strength  by  its  weeks  of  repose.  Her  love  of 
method,  thwarted  all  her  life,  yet  not  slain,  started 
up  now  afresh;  she  divided  her  time  into  regular 
hours,  and  no  one  pursuit  encroached  on  others. 
Helen,  meanwhile,  devoted  herself  exclusively  to  re- 
ligious reading.  She  had  not  attended  school  since 
her  own  serious  illness;  and  now  she  began  to  dread 
returning  to  its  temptations.  She  lost  her  interest 
in  all  her  old  pursuits;  and  even  began  to  regard 
everything  not  directly  religious  in  its  tendency, 
as  dangerous  and  sinful.  She  withdrew  herself  not 
only  from  her  former  associates,   but,   by  degrees, 


CASES    OF    CONSCIENCE.  187 

from  her  own  family,  and  spent  her  whole  time  in 
reading,  meditation,  and  prayer.  And  while  some 
Christian  graces  were  thus  exercised,  and  bade  fail 
to  thrive  in  what  appeared  a  favorable  atmosphere, 
others  of  equal  worth  were  left  to  dwindle  and  die. 
Iler  Cbristian  character  failed  to  attain  the  sym- 
metry it  obviously  lacked.  We  are  to  live  in  the 
world,  yet  above  it;  safety  is  not  found  in  soli 
tude,  nor  out  of  it,  but  in  the  happy  mixture  of 
the  two. 

"  How  long  are  we  to  stay  at  the  sea-side  ?  "  Lucy 
one  day  inquired. 

"About  four  months,"  Helen  answered. 

"In  that  time,  don't  you  think  I  could  learn  to 
draw  ?    That  is,  if  you  are  willing  to  teach  me." 

"  Oh,  do  you  wish  to  learn  to  draw  ?  What  good 
will  it  do?" 

"  I  don't  know.  But  as  I  never  can  learn  music, 
I  should  like  one  accomplishment  so  very  much ! " 

"  But  what  is  the  icse  of  drawing  ?  " 

"I  was  not  thinking  of  its  uses;  I  was  only 
thinking  of  its  pleasure.  It  would  be  an  amuse 
ment  to  me  all  my  life;  and  useful  too,  I  daro 
Bay. " 

Helen  returned  to  her  work  in  silence.  She  waa 
making  a  mat  for  Miss  Prigott,  in  a  fanciful  style 
then  in  vogue. 

"Don't  look  so  sober,"  said  Lucy  at  last,  playfully 


188  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

**It  makes  me  think  you  are  not  exactly  pleased 
with  me." 

"I  am  puzzled,"  replied  Helen.  "I  don't  set 
where  the  line  is  to  be  drawn  between  right  and 
wrong.  Now  I  had  made  up  my  mind  not  to 
draw  any  more  myself,  and  I  was  surprised  to 
hear  you  say  you  wish  to  begin.** 

"I've  been  all  over  that  ground.  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  father,  I  shoulci  have  turned  into  a  regu- 
lar  fanatic.  I  got  so  at  one  time,  that  I  thought 
it  wicked,  or  something  near  that,  to  eat  any- 
thing nice.  I  fancied  I  must  not  indulge  myself 
in  amusements  of  any  sort." 

"Well?" 

"But  father  said  that  was  slavery  of  the  worst 
kind.  That  it  grew  out  of  low  conceptions  of  God. 
Just  as  if  he  were  a  Task-master  who  wanted  ua 
to  work  all  the  time  without  any  rest." 

"  But  we  shall  have  time  to  rest  when  we  get  to 
heaven." 

"I  don't  know  how  to  argue  about  it;  I  know 
Tat  her  made  it  very  plain  to  me.  He  said  God 
nad  Himself  given  us  tastes  that  could  only  be 
gratified  by  indulgence  and  culture;  for  instance: 
for  music,  painting,  and  all  that.  These  pursuits 
i)eaL8G  to  be  innocent  only  when  we  put  them  in 
God*s  place  and  love  them  better  than  we  love 
Him." 


CASES    OF    CONSCIENCE.  189 

"And  haven't  you  the  slightest  scrnple  about 
learning  to  draw?" 

"No;  not  more  than  you  have  in  wasting  youi 
precious  time  over  that  mat." 

Helen  smiled,  and  yet  looked  a  little  suspiciously 
upon  the  mat. 

"  Oh,  1  was  only  jesting,"  said  Lucy. 

"You  were  playing  chess  with  Charles  all  last 
evening.  I  watched  you,  and  you  seemed  per- 
fectly enchanted  at  winning." 

"Yes,  I  always  want  to  win  I" 

"Isn't  that  selfish?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so.  But  I  don't  pretend  to  be 
perfect." 

"But,  Lucy,  is  it  right  to  play  chess  all  the 
evening  ?  " 

"  Anything  is  right,  in  the  way  of  innocent  amuse- 
ment, that  makes  a  boy's  evenings  pleasant.  Fa- 
ther made  a  little  set  of  chessmen,  and  used  to 
play  with  us  all.  He  wanted  us  to  enjoy  home 
above  any  other  place." 

"  I  thought  your  father  was  a  very  grave,  silent  man. 
1  had  no  idea  he  would  let  you  play  anything." 

"That's  because  you've  never  seen  him.  And  1 
have  quoted  grave  things  of  his  saying,  and  none 
of  the  funny  ones.  I  think  he  is  a  very  grave  man; 
but  he  liked  to  see  us  cheerful  and  happy — and  be- 
sides, he  has  plenty  of  fun  in  his  nature." 


190  THE    FLOWER    01-     IHE    FAMILY. 

"Well!  I'll  teach  you  all  I  know  about  drawing, 
and  I  hope  things  will  look  plainer  to  me  in  time.*' 

*'They  will,  I  don't  doubt.  At  first  one  sees 
*men  as  trees,  walking;'  but  after  awhile  this  isn't 

80 

They  were  interrupted  by  Mr.  Whittiei,  who 
came  to  bring  letters  to  Lucy,  from  home:  one  from 
her  mother,  on  a  large  sheet,  on  which  Kebecca  and 
Hatty  had  also  written ;  and  one  from  Arthur.  Helen 
watched  Lucy's  face  as  she  hurried  through  the 
former,  and  a  pang  of  jealousy,  obscure,  but  sharp 
still,  shot  through  hex  heart,  as  she  saw  how  ani- 
mated and  joyous  it  was. 

"It  is  so  good  to  hear  from  home!"  said  Lucy 
as  she  folded  the  great  sheet.  "But  it  makes  me 
want  to  be  there.  I  am  sure  they  need  me.  But 
they  won't  own  it.  It  seems  almost  wicked  for  me 
CO  go  off  to  the  sea-side  for  so  many  months,  while 
they  are  all  so  busy  at  home!"  She  turned  now 
to  Arthur's  letter;  and  as  she  read  that,  her  smiles 
grew  less  frequent,  and  she  sighed  as  if  with  the 
awakened  remembrance  of  an  old  sorrow.  It  was 
a  boyish,  simple  letter  enough. 

"Dear  Lucy: 

"I've  got  something  to  tell  you  that  I  am  sure  you 
won't  like;  but  I  must  speak  to  somebody;  and  father 
and  mother  are  full  enough  of  care  already.     It  ia 


CASES    OF    CONSCIENCE.  192 

about  John.  He  has  taken  it  into  hie*  head  to  go 
to  sea.     About  a  month  ago,  father  let  him  go  to 

fl on  business:  he  fell  in  there  with  some  wild 

fellows  who  are  going  to  sea,  and  they  talked  to 
him  till  he  felt  as  big  as  a  man.  He  came  home 
with  his  cap  stuck  on  one  side  of  his  head,  singing 
sailor  songs;  and  when  father  blamed  him  for  being 
gone  so  long,  he  owned  he  had  been  off  in  a  boat 
with  some  other  boys;   and  father  was  displeased, 

and  said   he   shouldn't   go  to   H again.     It's  a 

wicked  place.  Well,  the  very  next  day,  Mr.  Eob- 
bins  called  to  see  us,  and  he  told  mother  he  thought 
John  a  very  smart  boy,  and  that  he  ought  to  be 
fitting  for  college;  and  offered  to  have  him  come 
to  his  study  every  day,  and  recite  in  Latin.  But 
John  wouldn't  listen  to  it;  he  told  me,  then,  how  he 
had  set  his  heart  on  going  to  sea.  Now,  you  know 
he  isn't  big  enough  yet;  besides,  he  would  get  to 
be  such  a  wicked  boy,  that  I  don't  like  to  think  of 
it.  So  I  coaxed  him  to  put  off  all  thoughts  of  it  till 
you  come  home,  because  two  couldn't  be  spared  at 
once.  But  he's  just  as  fidgety  as  he  can  be;  and 
those  boys  prowl  round  here  sometimes;  and  they 
have  money;  and  seeing  it  makes  him  wild.  Do, 
dear  Lucy,  write  to  him,  and  try  to  make  him 
contented. 

**A  few  days  ago,  mother  told  me  that  she  had 
money  in  a  bank  in  New  York,  that  would  send  me 


192  THE    FLOWER    Oi     THE    FAMILY. 

to  college ;  but  perhaps  you  know  it  already.  But  iJ 
John  insists  on  going  to  sea,  I  mean  to  go  with  him 
and  I  wish  father  would  take  that  money  and  pay  ofl 
his  debts.  I  am  reciting  to  Mr.  Eobbins ;  he  is  a  very 
good  man,  and  knows  everything.  But,  somehow, 
if  I  thought  I  shouldn't  be  more  of  a  man,  I  think 
rd  stick  to  farming.  John  is  growing  like  a  house 
on  fire,  mother  says.  He  seems  to  grow  up  fast. 
Some  things  he  knows  better  than  I  do.  Not  things 
in  books,  but  about  men,  and  all  that.  Do  write  tt 
him.     Oh,  how  I  miss  youl" 

Then  followed  a  few  lines,  badly  written  and  badly 
spelled,  from  John  himself.  Lucy  was  struck  with 
their  confident,  bold  tone;  it  seemed  that  of  a  boy 
of  eighteen,  rather  than  that  of  one  of  his  age:  how 
could  he  have  grown  old  so  fast?  She  sat  down 
and  wrote  him  at  once;  and,  in  her  ardor  and  trep- 
idation, she  told  him  that  if  he  would  promise  not 
to  say  a  word  about  going  to  sea  until  her  return, 
which  would  be  in  a  few  months,  she  would  give 
him  money  to  take  a  long  journey,  as  soon  as  he 
could  be  trusted  from  home.  A  desperate  resort  to 
her  watch  could  be  then  made,  she  thought  anything 
was  better  than  for  such  a  boy  to  be  left  to  go  to 
ruin.  This  hour  of  anxiety  decided  her  not  to  make 
use  of  her  watch ;  and,  no  questions  being  asked,  she 
fancied  that  no  one  observed  that  it  was  not  worn. 


CASES    OF    CONSCIENCE.  193 

Gladly  now  would  she  have  flown  home;  but  she 
dared  not  even  say  that.  She  saw  that  both  her 
aunt  and  Helen  wished  her  to  accompany  them, 
and  that  they  would  be  hurt  should  she  propose  to 
relinquish  a  pleasure  so  long  looked  forward  to. 
Besides,  when  her  friend  Mrs.  Lee  came  with  Miss 
Prigott  to  make  her  parting  call,  before  going  into 
the  country  for  the  summer,  she  assured  Lucy  that 
Dr.  Thornton  had  spoke  a  very  decidedly  in  refer- 
ence to  her  not  returning  home  at  present;  and  she 
made  her  promise  not  to  think  of  it.  The  matter 
was,  therefore,  once  more  settled,  and  they  began 
to  make  preparations  for  their  summer  flight.  Miss 
Prigott  always  went  after  mountain-air,  somewhere. 
This  was  her  hobby ;  and  when  one  set  of  mountain? 
failed  to  rejuvenate  her,  she  sought  new  ones.  Shj 
was  determined  that  Lucy  should  reap  the  benefit 
of  her  experience.  Mrs.  Whittier's  hobby  was  the 
sea-air;  and  into  no  other  would  she  allow  Lucy  to 
be  carried.  Miss  Prigott  grew  warm  on  the  subject, 
and  urged  her  loneliness  as  an  argument  in  favoi 
of  a  project  she  had  formed.  This  proved  to  ht 
neither  more  nor  less  than  a  design  to  make  Lucy 
her  companion  for  the  summer. 

"Well!"  she  said  at  last,  when  she  found  her 
hopes  blasted  in  the  most  summary  manner  by  Mrs. 
Whittier,  "how  could  an  old  woman  of  my  age 
expect  a  young  girl  like  Lucy  to  consent  to  accom* 


194  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

pany  her?  Without  father  or  mother,  brother,  sistei 
or  child,  how  can  I  dream  of  anything  better  than 
solitude  ?  And  I  ought  to  have  learned  better  years 
ago!" 

Lucy  was  touched  by  these  words ;  she  had  nevei 
heard  that  the  lot  of  Miss  Prigott  was  so  very  lonely 
She  longed  to  throw  her  arms  around  the  little, 
wrinkled  figure,  and  tell  her  she  would  go  with  her 
anywhere,  and  love  her  too.  Perhaps  nothing  re- 
strained her  but  an  awful  sense  of  the  wealth  of 
which  the  object  of  her  sympathy  was  the  not 
happy  possessor. 

In  a  few  moments  Mrs.  Lee  rose  to  go.  Miss 
Prigott  lingered  behind,  and  whispered  to  Lucy: 

"I  hope  you  will  be  candid,  my  dear,  and  speak 
the  exact  truth.  If  I  give  up  my  mountain  journey, 
and  follow  you  to  the  sea-side,  shall  you  be  sorry? 
Shall  you  wish  me  away?" 

Lucy  answered,  and  with  truth,  that  far  from 
being  sorry,  she  should  be  very  glad.  This  answer 
proceeded,  in  part,  from  a  benevolent  impulse;  yet 
it  was  sincere. 

"Thank  you,  my  love.  I  shall  not  do  so;  I  only 
put  the  question.  And  now,  good-bye:  may  we  soon 
meet  again ! " 

Lucy  was  conscious  of  a  sense  of  relief  when  these 
last  words  wiire  spoken;  she  felt  sorry  for  and  wai 
displeased  at  it. 


CASES    OF    CONSCIENCE.  195 

♦'Ah!  I  may  well  say  I  am  not  perfect!"  she 
thought.  "  1  wish  I  was !  I  wish  I  were  more  like 
Christ !     He  is  no  respecter  of  persons  1 " 

Then  she  thought,  that  in  poor  Miss  Prigott  11  ig 
eye  detected  real  grace  and  goodness,  or,  at  least, 
desires  after  goodness;  and  that  the  life  blessed  b;v 
His  approval  and  presence  was  not,  after  all,  solitary, 


CHAPTER    XV. 


THE  8EA-S1VE. 


^-^  HE  close,  oppresrive  days  in  June  hastened 
Mrs.  Whittiers  preparations  for  their  de- 
parture, and  by  the  middle  of  the  month 
they  were  all  established  for  the  summer, 
near  the  sea-side.  Everything  here  was  as  new  to 
Lucy  as  the  great  city  they  had  left.  Now  for  the 
first  time  she  saw  and  heard  the  ocean;  and  she  saw 
it  with  no  careless  eye;  listened  to  its  music  with  no 
ordinary  ear.  She  felt  like  throwing  herself  into  its 
embrace,  like  the  child  that  once  asked,  *'Can  any- 
thing so  beautiful  be  dangerous?"  Books  seemed 
tame,  and  lay  neglected;  but  many  voices  spoke  to 
her,  even  the  voices  of  many  waters,  that  were  full 
of  life  and  truth.  Day  after  day  slipped  by,  and  hei 
enthusiasm  rather  waxed  than  waned;  and  her  aunt 
and  Helen  indulged  her  still  in  her  ecistacies,  without 
entirely  sharing  them.     They  had  seen  the  sea  all 


THE    SEA-SIDE.  19 • 

their  lives;  and,  if  the  truth  must  be  owned,  had 
caught  the  spirit  of  those  about  them,  who  saw  in 
the  ocean  nothing  but  a  great  bathing-tub,  in  which 
men,  women,  and  children,  dressed,  not  to  say  scream- 
ing, like  Indians,  might  dip,  and  dive,  and  spatter 
and  splash,  without  wetting  anybody's  carpet,  or 
crowding  anybody's  neighbor.  There  is  "  but  a  step 
between  the  sublime  and  the  ridiculous";  and  he 
who  sentimentalizes  on  the  shore  at  one  hour,  spout- 
ing, "  Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  ocean,  roll ! " 
goes  shrinking  into  it  the  next,  gasping  for  breath, 
a  sorry  picture  of  '*  majesty  stripped  of  its  externals." 
Thus  fared  Lucy,  and  her  frolics  and  her  laughter  in 
the  water  were  as  genuine  as  her  moralizings  and 
poetizings  when  out  of  it. 

It  soon  became  apparent  to  everybody  that  every- 
body had  brought  too  many  books,  too  many  plana 
of  all  sorts,  too  many  collars  to  embroider,  too  many 
slippers  to  beautify.  There  was  positively  no  time 
for  anything.  What  with  bathing,  and  dressing, 
and  being  civil,  and  driving  out,  each  day  slipped 
away  in  the  most  unexpected  manner.  People  sat 
with  books  in  their  hands,  making  believe  read;  and 
orought  out  needlework,  pretending  to  sew;  and 
made  desperate  efforts  to  appear  industrious  and  lit- 
erary; but  it  wouldn't  do.  Everybody  saw  through 
it;  knew  it  was  a  great  humbug;  felt  like  a  martyr 
and  said,  originally,  forty  times  a  day,  "  Where  doef 


198  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

the  time  go?"  But  "time"  never  came  back  to  teL 
where  it  went.  There  would  have  been  a  melanchol;^ 
pleasure  in  knowing.  One  might  at  least  have  writ- 
ten its  epitaph. 

To  Lucy's  observing  eye,  these  months  among 
people  were  full  of  amusement  and  instruction; 
and  although  she  could  not  have  told  you  what 
each  man  and  woman  wore  on  their  backs,  she 
could  have  given  you  a  pretty  just  idea  of  what 
they  carried  in  their  heads.  Here  was  Mrs.  Some- 
body dressed  as  simply  as  a  child;  and  there  was 
Mrs.  Nobody  with  a  whole  trunk  full  of  magnifi- 
cence flying  from  various  points  on  her  person. 
Here  was  Mrs.  Smith,  who  wondered  how  "every- 
body" dared  come  here,  even  if  they  could  afford 
to,  which  she  doubted;  and  there  was  Mrs.  Jones, 
who  would  enjoy  herself  amazingly  if  those  Smiths 
had  staid  at  home.  Mr.  Tompkins  pined  for  "so- 
ciety," and  threatened  every  day  to  go  somewhere 
else.  Mr.  Williams  thought  solitude  charming,  and 
was  often  seen  wandering  in  by-places,  which 
everybody  said  was  pride.  Mrs.  Perkins  let  her 
children  eat  everything;  Mrs.  Parkins  wouldn't  let 
hers  taste  of  aught  agreeable,  that  they  might 
learn  self-denial.  Mr.  Simpson  tnought  his  wife  a 
pattern  to  all  in  the  house.  Mrs.  Sampson  was 
Bure  nobody  had  a  husband  like  hers;  which  no 
!»ne    denied    or    cried    about.      Miss    Irkton  wished 


THE    SEA-SIDE.  19J 

she  had  the  training  of  all  those  dreadful  children. 
Mrs.  Lewis  said,  that  old  maids  should  not  come 
to  watering-places,  and  felt  that  none  but  motheis 
could  appreciate  babies. 

Lucy's  age  forbade  her  having  much  to  say;  she 
therefore  saw  and  learned  the  more.  She  saw  thjil 
everybody  had  faults,  whims,  hobbies;  also  that 
everybody  had  good  qualities,  real  and  reliable.  If 
Mr.  Tompkins  was  lofty,  he  was  also  generous 
If  Mr.  Williams  was  unsocial,  he  at  least  spoke  ill 
of  nobody.  And  although  Mrs.  Perkins  did  in- 
dulge her  children,  she  indulged  you  too,  and 
would  spend  a  whole  day  nursing  you,  if  you  were 
fiick  and  solitary.  And  what  if  Mrs.  Parkins  did 
teach  her  children  self-denial?  were  they  not  the 
happiest  family  in  the  establishment,  in  her  intense 
devotion  and  affection?  All  the  books  in  the 
world  could  not  have  taught  lessons  so  beneficial 
as  Lucy  was  now  learning.  Lessons  of  charity 
and  "psalms  of  life,"  that  to  the  last  hour  of  her 
existence  made  her  more  genial,  more  forbearing, 
more  tender-hearted.  She  saw  that  she  was  not 
the  only  being  in  the  world,  in  whom  humai. 
infirmity  and  foible  was  to  be  found,  and  that  all 
wisdom  and  goodness  were  not  locked  up  in  her 
own  head  and  heart.  If  her  brothers  and  sisters 
had  faults,  thsy  were  not  the  worst  in  the  world; 
and  if  they  were  dear  and  precious  and  affection 


200  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

Ate,  SO  were  hosts  of  others,  likewise.  It  is  nt 
small  attainment  to  learn  what  to  expect  of 
the  world  in  which  we  dwell;  and  it  is  not 
from  books,  however  wise,  but  from  living  men 
and  women,  and  children  too,  that  we  shall 
make  it 

The  season  so  profitable  to  Lucy,  proved  un- 
favorable to  Helen.  She  looked  less  into  the  heart 
of  things,  and  more  upon  the  surface.  She  saw 
many  professedly  religious  people  doing  things  her 
conscience  had  forbidden,  and  so  began  to  think  she 
had  been  too  strict.  Then  her  very  social  disposi- 
tion attracted  her  more  and  more  to  the  society 
of  the  young  people  about  her;  and  when  with 
the  Eomans,  she  did  as  the  Komans  did. 

She  very  soon  found  it  difficult  to  keep  up  reg- 
ular habits  of  devotion;  and  by  degrees  grew 
somewhat  careless  in  regard  to  them.  While 
Lucy  resolutely  hedged  herself  about  with  a 
liahit  of  prayer,  Helen  wavered  and  was  fitful  in 
this  respect. 

"Mrs.  Smith  is  a  good  woman,  and  yet  sLe 
does  so  and  so,"  said  Helen.  "Therefore  why 
should  not  I  ?  Besides,  no  one  wishes  to  appear 
better  than  the  rest."  Sometimes,  when  conscience 
said,  "You  have  not  prayed  to-day;  go  now,"  she 
was  talking  with  that  delightful  Miss  Woodman,  oi 
kuidly  listening  to   tedious  Mrs.  Young;   then   she 


THE    SEA-SIDE.  201 

would  reply,  "In  a  minute;"  or,  "How  it  would 
look  if  I  should  go  and  leave  her ! "  or,  "  I'm  sure 
I  should  be  thankful  to  do  so,  if  it  were  not  for 
seeming  to  neglect  Mrs.  Young.'*  Yet  the  example 
of  Lucy  was  of  service  to  her.  She  saw  that 
the  business  of  her  li/^  was  to  serve  God;  and  that 
nothing  was  allowed  to  interfere  with  any  one  oi 
the  duties  she  owed  Him;  and  which  she  per^ 
formed  evidently  with  pleasure,  and  out  of  pure 
love  of  His  will. 

"I  shall  be  glad  when  it  comes  time  to  go 
home,"  Helen  one  day  said  to  Lucy.  "  I  am  get- 
ting so  tired  of  these  people  here.  It  is  a  clear 
waste  of  time  to  spend  one's  summers  away  from 
home." 

*'  How  soon  shall  we  go  ? "  asked  Lucy. 

"In  a  few  weeks,  I  think.  Papa  is  obliged  to 
go  then;  and  we  may  as  well  do  the  same.  Don't 
you  think  so?" 

"  Yes,  indeed !  *'  cried  Lucy  with  so  much  energy 
that  Helen  could  not  help  laughing. 

"  We  must  make  up  our  lost  time  this  win 
ter,"  said  she.  "  I  long  to  see  how  you'll 
like  Mr.  Jackson.  He's  considered  an  admirable 
teacher." 

"What  do  you  mean,  my  dear  Helen?  I  am 
to  go  home  as  soon  as  we  return  to  the  city  " 

"Oh!    that  then  is  the  reason  you  are  so  eagci 


202  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

to  cut  short  our  stay  here?  Bat,  Lucy,  papa  sayit 
you  sha'n't  go  home  at  present.  He  has  written 
to  your  father  about  it." 

"1  must  go.  I've  written  to  father  that  I  shall 
certainly  be  there  by  the  first  of  October." 

Helen  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  "You  know 
you  are  to  stay  till  you  are  quite  well;  and  besides, 
I've  set  my  heart  on  having  you  at  school  with 
me.  And  papa  and  mamma  have  been  planning 
it  all  along.  You  know  they  think  you  must  be 
the  flower  of  your  family." 

"There  are  nine  more  just  such  flowers,"  said 
.ucy,  smiling. 

"I  don't  believe  it.  And  if  there  are,  I  don't 
care.  I  never  shall  like  any  of  them  so  well  as 
I  do  you." 

Lucy  dismissed  the  subject  at  once  from  her  mind. 
She  looked  upon  it  as  impossible  for  her  mother 
to  spare  her  longer;  her  health  was  now  perfectly 
good;  she  felt  anxious  about  John,  and  could  have 
cried  like  a  baby  to  see  them  all. 

"Papa  has  written  to  your  father  to  come  on, 
and  talk  the  matter  over.  He  was  to  meet  us  as 
Boon  as  possible,  after  our  return." 

"He  can't  leave  home  at  this  season." 

"Here  he  is,  at  any  rate!"  cried  Helen,  almost 
beside  herself  with  delight  at  the  pleasure  she  had 
the   satisfaction    of   announcing.      "I    was    told    tc 


THE    SEA-SIDE.  202 

break  it  to  you  gently,  and  I'm  sure  1  have;  bui 
you're  as  pale  as  a  sheet." 

Lucy  was  in  her  father's  arms;  she  did  not  heai 
the  concluding  sentence.  Surprise  and  joy  made 
her  lose  her  color  for  a  moment;  but  it  returned 
speedily;  and  as  he  held  her  off,  and  looked  ten 
derly  in  her  face,  he  thought  he  had  never  seen 
her  so  beautiful,  so  well  in  her  life. 

"How  covld  you  get  away,  dear  father?"  she 
asked,  as  soon  as  she  had  satisfied  herself  by  a  long 
embrace  that  he  really  was  there. 

"I  came!'^  he  answered,  smiling. 

"And  how  long  can  you  stay?  And  did  you 
come  to  take  me  home?     And  are  they  all  well?" 

He  sat  down,  and  took  her  on  his  knee,  and 
looked  so  satisfied,  so  happy,  that  she  forgot  he 
had  not  answered  her  questions. 

"  There  are  not  many  such  children ! "  he  thought. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Whittier  and  Helen  now  joined 
them,  and  there  was  a  deal  of  talking,  and  laugh- 
ing, and  rejoicing;  yet  Lucy's  oft-repeated  question, 
"Have  you  come  to  take  me  home?"  was  not  an- 
swered. 

"Give  your  father  a  little  peace,"  said  her  uncle 
at  last;  "you  do  nothing  but  cross-question  him. 
Don't  you  know  it  is  rude  to  ask  people  what  they 
have  come  for,  and  how  long  they're  going  tc 
itay?" 


204  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

Lucy  smiled  and  held  her  peace,  satisfied  that  all 
was  right  that  her  father  did;  and  so  content  to 
wait  his  pleasure. 

As  he  was  about  to  retire  for  the  night,  he  askeJ 
her,  jestingly,  if  she  should  be  ready  to  return  with 
him  in  a  day  or  two;  and  her  animated  reply  made 
him  smile,  while  it  brought  a  cloud  over  Helen't 
brow. 

The  next  day  they  were  all  busy  lionizing  Mr. 
Grant  He  had  not  enjoyed  such  a  season  of  re- 
freshment since  the  days  of  his  youth;  and  Lucy 
enjoyed  seeing  him  fish,  and  bathe,  and  drive,  so 
keenly,  that  this  seemed  the  happiest  day  she 
had  ever  spent.  It  proved  an  eventful  one  to  her, 
too,  for  she  now  learned  that  arrangements  had 
been  made  for  her  remaining  among  her  friends, 
as  Helen  had  assured  her.  Her  aunt,  taking  her 
aside,  made  known  all  the  plans  of  which  the 
past  few  months  had  been  full,  and  expressed  her 
strong  pleasure  in  the  prospect  of  keeping  her  yet 
longer. 

"But  I  feel  that  mother  needs  me  at  home,"  said 
Lucy.  Mrs.  Whittier  put  into  her  hands  the  kind., 
cordial  consent  her  mother  had  given  to  her  remain^ 
ing  to  attend  school  with  Helen;  and  when  she 
looked  up,  with  a  face  radiant  with  gratitude,  to 
thank  her  aunt,  she  found  herself  alone. 

"  How  can  I  ever  thank  them  ? "  cried   her   ful 


THE    SEA-SIDE.  205 

heart;  "and  how  can  I  ever  thank  God  for  Hii 
goodness  ? " 

At  this  moment  her  father  came  in,  very  cheerful 
and  happy,  to  congratulate  her. 

"Now  your  great  wish  is  gratified,"  he  said. 

"Father,"  replied  Lucy,  "it  ought  to  be  Hatty." 

"What  ought  to  be  Hatty?" 

"Why,  you  know  how  bright,  and  pretty,  and 
lovable  she  is;  and  how  she  has  always  disliked 
the  country;  and  I  have  been  here  now  a  long 
time,  and  it  is  her  turn  now." 

"As  to  the  prettiness,  I  am  no  judge.  You  all 
look  pretty  to  me.  But  as  to  the  brightness  and 
lovableness,  why,  I  hardly  think  they  need  com- 
plain. Why  should  Hatty  be  brighter  or  more 
lovable  than  you,  pray?" 

"Oh,  because  I  am  older  than  she." 

"Older  than  she!  Dear  child,  how  much  older 
now  ?  " 

"A  year  and  a  half,"  said  Lucy,  smiling  at  the 
apparent  failure  of  her  argument.  "But  I  feel  a 
good  many  years  older  than  she.  And  now  Ar- 
thur  is  provided  for,  I  do  wish  it  could  be  Hatty ! 
Oh,  how  can  I  let  you  go  home  and  tell  her  I  am 
well  and  stroug,  but  am  to  stay  here  and  enjoy  a 
life  of  ease  and  pleasure,  while  she  is  to  toil  and 
weai  out  at  home?" 

"I  see  how  it  is;  you  are  old  in  experience  oi 


206  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

the  cares  of  domestic  life;  and  I  am  thankful  voz 
are  to  be  released  from  that  incessant  drudgery, 
and  grow  young  again." 

"It  was  not  drudgery,  dear  father;  and,  besides^ 
if  it  was  80,  my  absence  must  throw  the  morfe  upon 
mother.     It  will  be  hard  for  her ! " 

"To  see  you  grow  young  again?  Come,  cheei 
up,  darling !  You  know  you  can  be  of  the  greatest 
service  to  Hatty  and  all  of  them,  by  these  advan- 
tages. Two  years,  or  even  three,  are  not  a  life- 
time." 

"Two  years!  oh,  father!  am  I  to  stay  so  long 
without  seeing  mother ! " 

"That's  the  hard  part  of  it;  hard  for  you;  and 
for  her,  and  for  us  all.  But  you  know,  my  dear 
child,  how  gladly  I  would  take  you  home  with  me, 
if  I  could." 

**I  can't  stay;  I  must  see  mother,  and  tell  hei 
how  it  grieves  me  to  leave  her,  and  hear  her  say 
she  spares  me  willingly."  She  yearned  to  feel  her- 
self folded  in  her  mother's  arms;  once  there,  she 
thought  no  temptation  could  draw  them  apart. 

"My  dear  Lucy,  I  know  you  better  than  you 
know  yourself,*'  said  her  father,  after  a  pause 
"  If,  in  this  moment  of  excitement,  you  decide  to 
relinquish  the  opportunity  for  an  education  su 
freely  offered  you,  I  am  sure  you  will  regret  it 
your  whole  life.     You  know  that  you  have  thirsteJ 


THE    SEA-SIDE.  207 

for  knowledge  ever  since  you  can  remember,  abov« 
everything  else." 

"Except  goodness!"  she  said,  gently. 

"Except  goodness!"  he  responded,  laying  his 
hand  lovingly  on  her  head.  *'Come,  let  me  de^ 
cide  for  you,  as  your  mother  has  already  done. 
You  will  stay." 

She  clung  to  him,  dreading  to  ask  how  soon  he 
would  leave  her. 

"Don't  let  us  be  seen  crying,"  he  said,  hearing 
approaching  footsteps. 

"  I  did  not  know  I  was  crying,"  said  Lucy,  smil- 
ing away  her  tears.  "  I  hope  I  am  not  ungrateful 
to  uncle  and  aunt — only,  when  I  get  thinking  about 
home,  I  so  long  to  be  there ! " 

Her  uncle  now  entered.  He  was  in  fine  spirits, 
and  drew  Lucy  aifectionately  to  his  side,  where 
she  stood  lost  in  thought,  while  he  talked  with 
her  father 

"Poor  mother!"  she  repeated  to  herself  again 
and  again.  "Ought  I  to  stay  from  her  so  long? 
How  hard  it  is  for  her  to  lose  us  just  when  we 
are  becoming  useful!  The  baby  will  be  a  great 
boy  before  1  see  him  again.  And  Arthur!  ah,  no- 
body will  watch  him  as  1  have  done  1  Nobody 
will  have  time;  for  my  absence  will  throw  more 
labor  upon  them  all." 

Helen   now   came   to   express  her  pleasure.     She 


208  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

caught  Lucy  in  her  arms,  and  whh'led  her  about  th€ 
room,  crying,  *'  She's  mine !  she's  mine ! "  till  they 
were  both  out  of  breath,  and  glad  to  sit  duwr, 
upon  the  sofa.  The  ecstacy  of  Helen  did  Lucy 
good;  she  felt  pleased  to  find  herself  the  object  of 
so  much  affection. 

"I  must  return  home  to-morrow,  Lucy,"  said  hei 
father;  '*that  is,  I  must  be  on  my  way  thither 
early  in  the  morning.  So,  if  you  wish  to  write, 
you  must  make  haste." 

Lucy  lost  no  time  in  doing  so;  and  her  heart 
relieved  itself,  as  she  wrote  a  long,  glowing  letter 
to  ner  mother,  full  of  love,  and  tenderness,  and 
hope.  And  then  a  note  to  Arthur;  dear  boy!  how 
her  pen  flew  over  her  paper  as  she  thought  of  him ! 
And  after  that,  such  a  deprecating  message  to  Hatty 
was  appended  to  her  mother's  letter,  as  if  it  were 
wrong  to  be  here,  if  she  must  be  there!  As  she 
wrote,  and  all  theii  dear  faces  came  up  before  her, 
she  felt  tempted  to  give  utterance  to  the  cry  that 
lay  smothered  in  her  heart,  and  to  exclaim,  "  I  will 
not,  I  cannot  stay!"  and  perhaps  she  would  have 
done  so,  and  our  story  would  end  here,  if  she  had 
been  used  to  obey  the  voice  of  feeling  rather  than 
that  of  conscience.  But  this  opportunity  might 
never  return — she  dared  not  neglect  it.  And  there 
was  not  much  time  now  for  deliberation;  her  father 
was  preparing  to  depart;  there  were  sooras  of  last 


THE    SEA-SIDE.  209 

things  to   be    done,   and   amid    the    confusion,   she 
could  not  realize  what  was  befalling  her. 

"Oh,  my  God!  only  let  me  do  just  right  1^  waa 
Der  reiterated  prayer;  and  she  rejoiced  that  she 
could  add,  "I  ddiqht  to  do  Thy  will,  whatever  it 
may  be  I" 


CHAPTER   XVI. 


LIFE  AT  SCHOOL. 


M MEDIATELY  on  their  return  to  the  city, 
both  Lucy  and  Helen  began  to  attend 
school.  Lucy  met  with  some  difficulties 
at  first;  for  her  education  had  been  quite 
fragmentary,  and  it  required  time  to  put  her  on 
the  same  level  with  her  new  companions.  It  soon 
appeared,  however,  that  in  some  respects  she  was 
superior  to  them  all.  Her  general  knowledge  was, 
for  her  age,  and  the  circumstances  in  which  it  had 
been  gained,  quite  remarkable;  her  tastes  were  re- 
fined and  mature,  and  her  lively  imagination  made 
her  often  brilliant.  Those  who  at  first  smiled  at 
her  '^ountry  breeding,  taking  for  granted  that  noth- 
ing but  ignorance  and  dulness  were  the  occasion 
of  her  modest,  retiring  air,  shortly  became  her  ad- 
mirers and  friends.  Every  week  her  teacher  re- 
turned  her  "composition,"  adorned  with  marks  of 
approbation.     His  object  with  his  pupils  was  to  ex 


LIFE    AT    SCHOOL.  211 

cite  their  ambitioD ;  he  did  not  scruple  to  appeal  to 
their  pride  and  vanity,  in  the  prosecution  of  this 
design;  and  Lucy's  talents  won  his  genuine  admira 
tion.  He  pressed  her  with  studies  she  was  only 
too  willing  to  take  up;  selected  for  her  a  course 
of  reading;  boasted  of  her  success  everywhere,  and 
even  wrote  a  glowing  letter  to  her  parents,  con- 
gratulating them  on  the  possession  of  such  a  child. 
Her  uncle  could  not  sufficiently  rejoice  that  he  had 
rescued  her  from  the  home  in  which  he  imagined 
her  not  appreciated.  In  his  satisfaction,  he  went 
so  far  as  to  persuade  himself  that  he  had  detected 
her  remarkable  talents  during  his  visit  at  her 
father's,  and  that  thus  she  had  been  brought  hither. 
"  What  a  providential  thing  it  was  that  I  should 
have  been  so  struck  with  her  I "  he  said  more  than 
once  to  Mrs.  Whittier,  who  smiled  a  little,  but  would 
not  dispute  it.  Less  prosperous  days  have  turned 
older  heads  than  Lucy's,  and  so  have  been  ex- 
changed for  long  nights  of  weeping.  But  God 
had  abundantly  blessed  to  her  heart  the  discipline 
by  which,  through  many  years.  He  had  been  pre- 
paring her  for  these  very  temptations.  And  she 
now  so  loved  and  longed  for  His  favor  and  ap- 
proval, as  to  feel  the  worthlessness  of  that  of  the 
world.  "None  of  these  things  move  me!"  is  the 
triumphant  exclamation  of  many  a  saint,  when 
tempted    by   all    the    honors   life    can    offer,   to  loot 


212  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

away  from  those  imperishable  rewards  awaiting 
him   on   high. 

Mr.  Jackson,  who  was  always  trying  experiments 
in  the  management  of  his  pupils,  opened  this  new 
term  with  the  offer  of  prizes  in  all  the  departments. 
save  that  to  which  Lucy  belonged.  He  privately 
whispered  to  her^  and  to  her  class-mates,  that  they 
needed  no  such  stimulus  to  exertion.  Helen  had  at 
first  a  little  hesitation  about  becoming  a  competitor 
in  the  race,  but  finally  entered  the  lists;  and,  hav- 
ing done  so,  boon  manifested  great  zeal  and  energy. 
One  evening  when  she  had  been  hard  at  work  for 
several  hours,  reviewing  old  lessons,  Charles  came 
sauntering  in,  and  threw  himself  listlessly  upon  the 
Bofa. 

"How  busy  you  girls  are!"  he  said.  "Come, 
Helen,  do  put  away  those  old  books,  and  read  me 
that  French  story.  You  know  you  promised  to 
read  it  some  day  this  week." 

"I'll  certainly  keep  my  promise;  but  I  can't  now. 
I  am  reviewing  Day's  Algebra,  and  you  needn't  be 
surprised  if  you  see  me  very  industrious  nowadays." 

"  I  thought  industrious  people  could  find  time 
for  everything." 

*'0h  dear!  no,  indeed!  there  you  are  quite  mis- 
taken. But  don't  talk  to  me  now,  please,  for  I  am 
going  to  undertake  a  sum  a  mile  long.  Yes,  everj 
bit  of  a  mile  long." 


LIFE    AT    SCHOOL.  213 

*'  J)o  let  a  fellow  see  it ! "  cried  Charles,  with  pre- 
tended curiosity.  "A  mile  long!  What  reniark- 
ftble  girls  you  must  have  at  your  school  1  We  boys 
never  dream  of  sums  more  than  two  feet  long,  at 
the  utmost." 

Helen  laughed.  "What  a  good-for-nothing  fel- 
low you  are!"  said  she.  "You  know  very  well 
what  I  meant.  Or,  perhaps  you  do  not  perceive 
the  difference  between  literal  and  figurative  lan- 
guage ! " 

"  Dear  me  I  how  wise  we  are  getting ! "  said 
Charles,  provokingly.  But  Helen  would  not  be 
provoked;  she  let  him  laugh  till  he  was  tired, 
while  she  went  on  half-aloud:  "Let  me  see:  x 
represents  the  sugar;  y,  the  tea;  «,  the — what's  z 
to  represent?  Oh,  I  see — the  coffee;  no — not  the 
coffee,  either.  Why,  I'm  as  stupid  as  an  owl, 
to-night." 

"Is  that  so  very  unusual?" 

"  Oh,  Charles !  please  don't  look  over  my  shoulder 
BO.  Nothing  puts  me  in  such  a  fidget  as  having 
people  looking  over  my  shoulder.** 

^'People?"  said  Charles;  "what  people?  Am  1 
people?  Yes,  she  must  mean  me,  for  there's  no 
one  else  in  the  room.  Well,  I  declare!  1  never 
knew  I  was  in  the  plural  number  before !  But 
this  must  be  figurative  language ! " 

"  Oh,  Charles !  you  are  a  real  torment  I "  said  Helen. 


tl4  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"That's  literal,  isn't  it?"  he  asked. 

"Charles,"  said  Helen,  now  laying  down  hei 
Blate,  "  do  go  away,  there's  a  good  boy.  Come, 
now,  ril  tell  you  why  I  am  so  anxious  about  this 
particular  lesson.  Mr.  Jackson  has  offered  a  prize, 
which  I  want  very  much  to  win.  I  meant  to  keep 
it  a  secret,  but  there's  no  use." 

Charles  could  not  resist  the  tone  in  which  these 
words  were  spoken;  neither  could  he  refrain  from 
saying,  "  I  don't  think  much  of  prizes,  anyhow." 

"Don't  you?  but  why  not?     I  am  very  sorry." 

What  boy  ever  gave  a  reason  for  the  belief  that 
was  in  him?  "I  don't  know  why,"  said  he.  *' 1 
don't  like  them,  because  I  don't ! "  and  away  he 
ran,  leaving  Helen  to  return  to  x,  y,  and  z;  which 
she  did,  till  her  head  ached,  and  she  was  tired  in 
every  limb. 

The  hope  that  the  prize  would  be  hers,  and  with 
it  her  father's  satisfied  smile,  her  mother's  gentle 
caress,  made  her  lose  sight  of  and  forget  othei 
objects  of  interest.  The  lamp-mat  that  had  beei 
commenced  in  honor  of  Miss  Prigott's  approaching 
birthday,  was  thrust  hastily  into  a  bag  already  fain 
to  burst  from  its  plenitude  of  like  fragments;  and 
a  gay  handkerchief,  in  process  of  hemming  for  the 
cook,  shared  a  similar  fate.  Every  night  when  she 
retired  to  her  room,  her  mind  was  so  filled  with 
the   thought   of  school,   and    so   wearied   with    the 


LIFE    AT    SCHOOL.  215 

iabor  she  had  imposed  on  it,  that  she  approached 
with  reluctance  this  season  of  devotion.  She  would 
tlien  force  herself  through  her  usual  duties,  and  go 
to  bed  in  a  most  cheerless  state.  "It  ought  not 
to  be  thus,"  she  would  say  to  herself;  "  and  to 
morrow  I  will  not  allow  the  thought  of  that  fool- 
ish prize  to  distract  me  so!  But  there  is  one  com- 
fort! When  all  is  settled,  I  shall  be  free  again. 
Now  I  must  get  along  as  well  as  I  can." 

One  must  live  many  more  years  than  Helen  had 
done,  to  be  quite  free  from  such  mistakes  as  this. 
What  a  blessed  day  that  is,  when  we  learn  to 
expect  nothing  better  from  life  than  distractions  j 
nothing  better  from  our  own  hearts  than  a  heed- 
less absorption  in  every  petty,  passing  interest ! 
Then  first  we  throw  ourselves  on  the  simple  grace 
of  God,  forsaking  forever  the  fancied  stronghold 
of  our  own  good  purposes. 

When  Helen  awoke  on  the  morning  after  her 
conversation  with  Charles,  all  the  interests  of  her 
school-life  rushed,  like  armed  men,  to  meet  her. 
In  the  very  midst  of  earnest  words  of  prayer, 
lier   plans   for   the   day  came  to  claim   attention. 

Her  thoughts  wandered  to  her  books  and  stud« 
ies.  and  then,  urged  back  to  their  solemn  task, 
came  reluctantly,  and  flew  away  from  her  grasp. 

But  that  struggle  with  temptation  was  not  lost. 
How   full   of  love   and    tender   compassion   was  the 


216  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY 

invisible,  yet  present  Saviour  before  wLoin  she 
knelt!  How  willingly  He  accepted  that  poor,  fee- 
ble, half-uttered  prayer,  and  how  that  sigh  for  de- 
liverance found  its  way  to  the  ear  of  Him  who 
hath  been  touched  with  the  feeling  of  our  infirm- 
ity! And  when  Helen  walked  sadly  on  her  way 
to  school,  filled  with  self-upbraiding,  yet  too  weak 
in  faith  to  tear  herself  at  once  away  from  tempta- 
tion, shall  we  doubt  that  Jesus  Himself  went  with 
His  little  disciple,  pitying  and  resolving  to  rescue 
her? 

"  How  glad  I  shall  be  when  Helen  is  herself 
again!"  sighed  her  mother  more  than  once.  She 
thought  it  not  best,  however,  to  interfere  with  her 
in  her  present  mood.  Experience  is  a  good  teacher; 
without  her  instructions  and  discipline,  no  char- 
acter is  complete.  All  the  mother's  wisdom  fails 
to  supply  to  her  child  the  place  of  that  each  must 
acquire  for  herself. 

"  Hurrah !  here  she  comes,  prize  and  all ! "  shouted 
Charles,  as  one  day,  on  his  return  from  school,  he 
encountered  Helen,  smiling,  and  blushing,  and  bear 
ing  a  large  package  in  her  arms. 

"  Do  tell  me  if  you  brought  that  home  yourself?  " 
he  cried. 

*  No,  Mr.  Jackson  sent  it  for  me.  I  met  it  ai 
the  door." 

She  looked  around  for   her    mother's   smile    and 


LIFE    AT    SCHOOL.  211 

kiss,  and  for  a  moment  they  made  her  completely 
happy. 

"I'm  glad  youVe  got  this  pretty  desk,"  said 
Charles,  removing  its  covering.  "There's  that 
hateful  Mary  Anna  Milman  expected  it;  didn't 
she?" 

"She  is  not  hateful  at  all,  but  my  dearest 
friend  I" 

"7  think  her  hateful,"  retorted  Charles.  "Foi 
her  hair  is  as  red  as  fire;  and  when  she  walks, 
she  goes  mincing  along,  just  so.  Look !  on  her 
tiptoes;  just  so.     I  can  imitate  her  perfectly." 

Helen  was  tired  and  excited.  She  had  been 
through  a  long  public  examination,  and  her  head 
ached. 

"You  are  very  unkind,  Charles,"  said  she,  indig- 
nantly; and  as  usual,  when  angry,  she  ran  to  her 
own  room,  crying  with  all  her  heart. 

"  Mamma,"  said  Charles,  replying  to  his  mother's 
glance  of  regret,  "  I  really  did  not  mean  to  vex  her. 
The  least  thing  makes  her  cry." 

"She  has  over-exerted  herself,  and  we  should 
make  some  allowance  for  that,"  she  answered. 
"You  know  I  begged  you  to  try  to  enter  into 
her  pleasure,  should  she  win  the  prize;  for,  after 
all,  it  is  valueless  to  her  without  our  sympathy." 

"Well,  mamma,  I  tried  to  sympathize  with  her. 
Tm  sure  I  did  not  know  Mary  Anna  Milman  waa 


216  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

her  dearest  friend.  And  her  hair  is  red,  and  every- 
body knows  it;  and  she  minces  when  she  walks.  1 
don't  see  how  Helen  can  endure  her." 

*'But  the  truth  is  not  to  be  spoken  at  all  seasons, 
my  dear  boy,  unless  in  case  of  need.  Suppose  I 
should  take  this  opportunity,  when  you  are  vexed, 
to  point  out  the  faults  of  Carlo;  would  you  not  find 
it  an  ill-chosen  time?  And,  as  you  could  not  cry 
like  a  girl,  would  you  not  rush  from  the  room  in 
a  passion,  like  a  boy  ?  '* 

Charles  smiled.  "Oh,  I  dare  say  you  are  right, 
mamma.  I  do  wish  I  could  help  teasing  Helen. 
But  it  is  such  fun !  I  wish  you  could  be  a  boy  foi 
five  minutes,  and  see  what  fun  it  is ! " 

His  mother  felt  very  submissive  to  the  fate  that 
had  debarred  her  from  such  fun,  she  said. 

Mr.  Whittier  now  came  in  to  dinner,  and  as 
they  seated  themselves  at  the  table,  he  missed 
Helen. 

"Where  is  she?"  he  asked. 

"She'll  be  here  presently,"  said  her  mother,  who 
did  not  care  to  annoy  him  with  the  information 
that  she  was  crying  in  her  room. 

But  Charles  volunteered  the  intelligence  without 
delay. 

"What  is  she  crying  for?"  asked  her  father. 
"Has  she  lost  the  prize?  Well,  I  am  glad  of  it 
I  never  liked  this  system  of  emulation.     And  novt 


LIFE    AT    SCHOOL.  218 

it  is  all  over,  I  hope  she'll  honor  us  ail  with  a  lit« 
tie  attention." 

Her  mother  explained  that  the  prize  was  safely 
in  Helen's  possession. 

"Then  why  is  she  crying?"  persisted  her  father. 

"  She  got  angry  with  me,"  said  Charles,  "  because 
1  teased  her  about  her  'dearest  friend,'  as  she  calla 
her.** 

"  She  was  very  tired,  uncle,"  said  Lucy,  "  and  her 
head  ached  when  she  went  to  school." 

Mr.  Whittier  said  no  more,  and  dinner  was  any- 
thing but  a  social  meal  that  day.  LuQy  slipped 
away  as  soon  as  possible,  to  find  Helen,  and  tried  to 
persuade  her  to  take  refreshment  of  some  kind; 
but  she  lay  rather  obstinately  on  her  bed,  and 
looked  quite  unlike  a  heroine.  Her  mother  soon 
followed  Lucy;  she  had  a  little  tray  in  her  hands, 
on  which  was  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  bit  of  toast. 

"Come,  darling,"  she  said,  "you  must  take 
thia" 

Helen  rose,  and  obeyed  in  silence;  and  Lucy 
left  them  alone,  knowing  that  thus  sympathy  could 
best  be  offered  and  received. 

"  Mamma ! "  said  Helen,  "  I  hope  you  do  not  think 
I've  been  crying  all  this  time  at  what  Charles  said. 
I  was  vexed  at  first;  but  I  soon  got  over  that. 
But  I  was  so  disappointed!  I  thought  it  would 
give   me   such   pleasure    to   win    the   prize;   and    I 


220  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

worked  so  hard  for  it!  And  it  seems  now  such  a 
trifle  to  sacrifice  all  those  months  to ! " 

"I  understand  it  all,  my  dear  child.  But  I  must 
have  you  rest  now.  Lie  down  again  and  sleep;  1 
am  sure  you  need  it." 

Caressed  and  soothed  by  her  mother's  soft  hands, 
Helen's  tears  soon  ceased  flowing;  she  became  quiet 
and  composed,  and  at  last  fell  into  a  refreshing 
sleep.  Mrs.  Whittier  sat  and  watched  the  young 
sleeper,  as  an  angel  sits,  and  watches,  and  loves. 
Gladly  would  she  bear  in  her  own  person  all  the 
disappointments,  trials,  and  sorrows  life  can  offer, 
if  thereby  her  child  could  be  spared  them.  But 
this  may  not  be.  The  utmost  a  loving  mother  can 
do,  is  to  pity  and  to  pray  for  the  objects  of  her  af- 
fection; each  one  for  himself  must  sufier,  and  suf- 
fer alone. 

Helen  awoke  refreshed,  and  thanked  her  mother 
with  many  grateful  caresses,  for  her  gentle  watch 
over  and  sympathy  with  her.  When  left  alone,  she 
sat  some  minutes  in  thoughtful  silence.  She  felt, 
now  that  all  excitement  was  over,  that  she  had 
been  selfish,  and  careless,  and  peevish  during  many 
months;  and  all  to  gain  a  momentary  pleasure.  And 
this  pleasure  was  not  so  real,  so  substantial  as  she 
Dad  expected  it  to  be.  It  was,  moreover,  damp 
ened  by  the  fact  that  some  of  her  school-mates  envied 
her,  while  others   disputed  her  right  to  the  prize 


LIFE    AT    SCHOOL.  22!! 

These  little  school  experiences  are  of  service,  ho^r 
ever,  to  a  heart  once  turned  heavenward.  The^ 
proved  so  to  Helen.  She  felt  now,  and  feeling  led 
in  time  to  conviction,  that  she  never  could  be  satis- 
fied with  mere  worldly  honor,  and  that  she  must 
give  herself  with  more  earnestness  to  the  love 
and  service  of  God.  She  knelt  and  prayed  as  these 
thoughts  urged  her  to  do;  and  as  she  prayed,  the 
petty  interests  and  disappointments  of  life  grew 
more  and  more  insignificant.  Nothing  seemed 
worthy  her  pursuit  but  the  fear  of  God  and  the 
love  of  Christ. 

Thus  humble  and  happy,  she  went  now  to  join  her 
mother  and  Lucy.  Her  father  was  in  the  hall;  she 
ran  to  meet  and  to  kiss  him,  and  to  help  him  take 
off  his  coat,  as  she  had  not  found  time  to  do  of  late. 
Nothing  but  a  certain  feeling  of  timidity,  a  con- 
Bciousness  of  the  source  of  her  present  peaceful  and 
loving  mood,  restrained  her  from  kissing  every  one 
in  the  house.  Charles  was  alone  in  the  dining-room, 
reading  or  trying  to  read — for  he  was  a  very  poor 
scholar — the  French  story  he  had  often  vainly  asked 
Helen  to  read  to  him.  She  sat  down  by  him  and 
whispered,  *'  I  am  sorry  1  was  vexed  with  you  about 
Mary  Anna."  He  looked  up,  astonished.  Never  be- 
fore had  her  pride  allowed  her  to  make  any  conces- 
Bion  of  this  sort.  He  made  no  answer,  for  he  felt 
embarrassed,  and  knew  not  what  to  say. 


222  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"After  tea  I'll  read  that  story,  if  you'll  let  me,  aftei 
making  you  wait  so  long,"  she  continued. 

"  The  reason  I  wanted  you  to  read  it  was  because 
Barrows  and  I  had  a  dispute  about  one  part.  I 
wanted  to  ask  you  what  you  thought." 

"Lucy's  thoughts  are  worth  more  than  mine;  why 
didn't  you  ask  her?"  asked  Helen. 

"Does  Lucy  read  French?"  he  asked,  in  sur- 
prise. 

"Of  course  she  does.  Mr.  Lennox  says  he  nevei 
has  had  a  pupil  of  whom  he  was  so  proud." 

After  tea,  Helen  read  the  story,  and  her  father 
laid  aside  his  paper  to  listen.  She  then  hemmed 
the  cook's  handkerchief,  so  long  buried  in  the  depths 
of  her  great  bag. 

"You  look  tired,  Helen,"  said  her  mother.  "Do 
amuse  yourself  in  some  way  till  bed-time." 

"She  has  worked  too  hard  of  late,"  said  her  fa- 
ther, "and  must  unbend  her  mind  a  little." 

Helen  laughed,  and  let  her  father  pinch  her  cheeks 
at  his  leisure. 

"Come,  I'll  tell  you  all  a  story,"  said  he. 

Charles,  who  was  busy  in  a  private  attempt  to 
adorn  Carlo  with  Dinah's  new  handkerchief,  in- 
stantly snatched  this  unwelcome  appendage  from 
the  poor  dog's  head,  and  drew  near  to  his  father. 
Lucy  and  Helen  also  prepared  to  listen;  and  Mr 
Whittier  began  on  this  wise: 


LIFE    AT    SCHOOL.  ?23 

"There  was  once  a  man  who  said  to  himself,  '1 
mean  to  walk  across  the  world,  and  see  what  there 
is  on  the  other  side.'" 

"Oh,  what  a  fool !  "  cried  Charles. 

"Perhaps  he  was  insane,"  suggested  Helen. 

"The  man  set  forth  on  his  journey,  and  proceeded 
to  follow  his  own  nose,  whithersoever  it  led  him, 
provided  it  led  in  a  direct  line,  diverging  neither  to 
the  right  hand  nor  the  left.  Pretty  soon  he  ran  bolt 
up  against  another  man,  who  was  walking  in  an 
opposite  direction.  The  collision  threw  the  other 
down. 

*' '  What  a  monster  of  cruelty  to  run  over  a  blind 
man!'  cried  the  bystanders. 

"The  man  did  not  stop  to  explain  his  conduct. 
He  felt  too  eager  and  anxious;  and  so  he  hurried 
along  in  a  straight  line,  till  he  came  to  a  little  child 
that  had  fallen  upon  the  pavement. 

"  *  Mamma,  mamma !  I  want  my  mamma ! '  shrieked 
the  child. 

" '  Kun  home  to  her,  then,  and  move  out  of  my 
way,'  said  the  man. 

"  But  the  child  lay  upon  its  face,  and  cried  louder 
than  ever.  The  heart  of  the  man  smote  him.  He 
knew  he  ought  to  lead  the  little  one  to  its  home, 
but  to  do  this  would  take  him  out  of  his  way.  So 
ne  stepped  over  its  head,  and  proceeded  on  hia 
journey. 


224  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

**  Presently  he  came  close  up  to  a  house.  He 
opened  the  window  and  stepped  in. 

"'A  thief!  a  thief!'  cried  the  children,  as  the 
stranger  appeared  in  the  room.  In  rushed,  armed 
with  pokers  and  brooms,  the  father,  the  mother,  the 
maids. 

"  *  Hear  me !  *  shouted  the  man,  trying  to  raise  his 
voice  above  the  tumult.  *I  have  taken  a  vow  to 
walk  straight  through  the  world.  Allow  me  to  pass 
through  your  house,  and  I  never  will  molest  you 
again.* 

*' '  Don't  talk  to  me  of  your  vows ! '  cried  the  en- 
raged father,  punching  him  with  the  poker. 

"'He  is  a  thief!  he  will  be  robbing  us  all!'  cried 
the  mother. 

"  *  Let  us  throw  him  out  of  the  window,'  said  the 
maids. 

"So  out  of  the  window  they  threw  him. 

"'I  shall  have  to  begin  all  over  again,'  said  the 
man,  as  soon  as  he  picked  himself  up.  '  Or,  sta^ ; 
could  not  I  climb  over  this  house?' 

"With  incredible  exertion,  aided  by  lightning- 
rods,  shutters,  chimneys,  and  the  like,  the  man  at 
last  succeeded  in  accomplishing  this  object,  while 
the  owner  of  the  house  ran  to  summon  the  policCj 
and  the  children  cried  within. 

"He  now  went. rapidly  on  his  way  in  the  open 
country,   where   neither   men,    children,   nor  houses 


LIFE    AT    SCHOOL  223 

arrested  his  progress.  He  went  through  ditches,  ha 
trampled  down  sweet  flowers,  he  ascended  and  de- 
scended high  hills.  On  he  went,  tired,  dusty,  lame, 
caring  for  nobody  and  nobody  caring  for  him.  He 
met  with  many  hardships  and  resisted  many  oppor- 
tunities of  doing  good;  at  first  through  violence  to 
his  own  feelings,  but  after  a  time  coming  to  be  cold, 
selfish,  and  hard  of  heart. 

"At  last  he  came  to  the  shores  of  a  great  sea. 
Here  he  stood  still,  in  despair.  What  should  he 
do?  At  last,  stripping  himself  of  everything,  even 
to  the  gold  that  he  had  hitherto  borne  about  his 
person,  he  plunged  into  the  waters  and  swam  for  his 
life.  Cold,  exhausted,  hungry,  naked,  and  penniless, 
he  at  length  reached  the  opposite  shore  and  contin- 
ued his  journey.  Every  step  was  now  one  of  pain 
and  strong  effort,  and  when  a  little  hillock  ob- 
structed his  path,  he  wept  like  a  child.  Through 
summer  and  winter,  seed-time  and  harvest,  still  he 
toiled  on.  At  last  he  reached  the  end  of  his  jour 
ney" 

"And  what  did  he  find  there,  papa?"  cried  Charles, 
whose  interest  had  been  waxing  stronger  and 
stronger  as  his  father  proceeded. 

"What  do  you  think  he  found?" 

Charles's  opinion  wavered  between  all  manner  of 
possible  and  impossible  things.  He  thought  of  a 
race  of  giants;  of  men  with  but  one  eye.  or  of  men 


226  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

with  six  eyes,  and  the  like;  while  Helen,  who  had 
been  lost  in  thougl  t,  started  up,  crying, 

"  Why,  he  found  his  own  house ! " 

"What!  his  own  house?  How  could  his  house 
be  on  the  other  side  of  the  world  ? "  asked 
Charles. 

*'  Why,  don't  you  see,"  cried  Helen,  snatching  up 
an  apple,  "  if  I  set  out  from  this  dent  and  walk  in 
a  straight  line,  I  come  right  back  to  the  dent 
again  ?  " 

'*  Any  fool  might  see  that,"  said  Charles.  *'  But 
what  has  this  to  do  with  the  story?  The  man  was 
not  walking  round  the  world,  but  across  it." 

"But,  my  boy,  is  the  world  a  flat  plane,  or  a 
Bphere  ?  " 

"  Why,  it  is  a  sphere.  Ah !  I  see  now !  Of  course 
the  man  would  come  to  the  point  he  started  from." 

He  looked  discomfited,  however. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "what  did  they  say  to  him  when 
they  saw  him  coming  home?" 

'*  His  mother  looked  at  him  from  the  window,  and 
when  she  saw  the  miserable  state  to  which  he  had 
reduced  himself,  she  said,  *  We  will  get  hira  to  bed 
as  soon  as  possible,  poor  fellow,  for  he  seems  to  need 
rest  sadly.  And  we  won't  upbraid  him  for  his  folly. 
He  has  had  his  punishment.'  But  his  wife  said  to 
him,  *A  pretty  state  you  are  in,  to  be  sure!  I  won- 
der you  have  not  been   carried   to   Bedlam,    where 


LIFE    AT    SCHOOL.  227 

you  belong'  Who  do  you  suppose  fed  and  clothed 
your  children  while  you  ran  such  a  wild-goose  chase 
over  the  world?  Did  I  not  tell  you  how  it  would 
end?" 

"  And  that's  the  last  1  ever  heard  of  him,"  said 
Mr.  Whittier,  bringing  his  story  to  so  sudden  a 
close,  that  both  children  cried  out, 

"Is  that  all?  What  became  of  the  man?  How 
did  he  feel?" 

"I  have  told  you  all  I  know,"  said  their  father. 

"Well,"  said  Charles,  "he  was  a  fool,  anyhow. 
He  might  have  known  he  was  a  fool,  if  he  had 
stopped  to  think  a  moment.  His  wife  gave  it  to 
him  well,  though,  didn't  she?  It  was  just  good 
enough  for  him  1 " 

*'  Oh,  that  was  the  part  I  liked  least,"  said  Helen. 
"  His  wife  might  have  known  he  would  feel  ashamed 
and  sorry  enough  to  need  no  scolding." 

"That  is  one  of  the  morals  of  my  story,  but  not 
the  only  one,"  said  her  father. 

"  1  hate  morals,  and  am  going  to  feed  Carlo,"  said 
Charles,  laughing  and  hurrying  off. 

Helen  suspected  the  story  had  some  reference  to 
her  own  heedless  course  during  the  few  past  months, 
but  she  had  not  time  to  say  so,  for  her  father,  point- 
ing to  the  clock,  admonished  her  that  it  was  time 
to  go  to  bed.  He  kissed  and  blessed  her  with  great 
tenderness,  as  she  bade  him  good-night,   and,  half 


228  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

amused  and  half  reproved,  she  retired  to  her  own 
room, 

"Nonsense  is  wholesome  sometimes,"  said  Mr 
Whittier  to  his  wife,  half  apologetically. 

"Yes,  indeed  it  is,"  she  answered. 


CHAPTER  XVIL 

TEE  HOLIDAYS. 

AMMA,"  said  Helen  the  next  morning, 
*' after  hearing  papa's  story,  I  concluded 
not  to  try  to  finish  that  mat  within  a 
given  time." 

"Then  you  did  not  understand  its  object,  my  dear." 
"Why,   mamma,  T   get  so  absorbed   in  whatever 
I  undertake,   that  I  care  for  nothing  but  to  reach 
the  end.     And  I  don't  know  how  I  can  help  my- 
self." 

"You  surely  do  not  intend  to  sit  with  folded 
hands  and  an  idle  mind,  all  your  days,  I  suppose  ?  " 
"  Why,  no,  mamma.  But  I  thought  1  would 
not  allow  myself  to  set  about  anything  very  in- 
teresting, for  fear  of  becoming  too  much  in  love 
with  it." 

"On  the  contrary,  I  advise  you  to  finish  the 
mat.  Miss  Prigott  likes  to  be  remembered  on  hex 
birthdays.     And  it  will  be  good  discipline  for  yon 


230  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

to  oblige  yourself  to  be  interested  in,  but  nevei 
overcome  by  such  work." 

Helen  hesitated.  "Oh,  mamma!  you  don't  know 
how  weak  I  am  1 "  said  she. 

"  Almost  any  one  can  run  away  from  temptation," 
returned  her  mother.  "It  is  far  nobler,  and  re- 
quires a  higher  degree  of  strength,  to  meet  and 
conquer  it." 

Helen  ran  for  the  mat,  and  sat  down  to  hei 
work,   which  proved  a  sore  temptation  to  her. 

"  1  must  just  put  in  these  crimsons,  to  see  what 
the  effect  will  be;  or  I  will  only  finish  this  rose- 
bud to  see  how  it  is  going  to  look;"  says  the  in- 
veterate embroiderer,  when  the  still  small  voice  of 
duty  whispers  of  another  and  less  agreeable  task. 
Many  an  innocent  lamp-mat  or  fire-screen  has  borne 
witness  to  frowns,  shrugs,  and  sighs,  when  it  should 
have  seen  bending  over  it  only  a  fair  and  unclouded 
face.  Old  Mr.  This,  and  tiresome  Mrs.  That,  if  they 
intrude  on  this  bewitching  pastime,  may  be  thank- 
ful if  they  are  not  consigned,  in  wish  at  least,  to 
the  bottom  of  the  Red  Sea,  by  lips  that  ought  only 
to  know  how  to  shape  words  of  friendly  greeting 
and  cordial  welcome! 

Helen  was  going  on  bravely  with  her  work,  and 
interruptions  proved  excessively  annoying,  so  that 
when  her  friend  Mary  Anna  was  announced,  she 
felt  a  slight  emotion  of  vexation,  and  failed  to  rush 


THE    HOLIDAYS.  231 

to  meet  her  with  the  ecstacy  of  delight  that  young 
lady  deemed  requisite.  In  fact,  Miss  Mary  Anna 
had  not  found  herself  in  the  best  possible  humor 
that  morning,  and  had  had  her  feelings  already 
wounded  by  a  suggestion  from  a  little  sister,  that 
she  had  "got  out  of  bed  on  the  wrong  side."  She 
therefore  assumed  an  air  of  injured  innocence,  and 
Beating  herself  at  a  distance  from  Helen,  proceeded 
to  make  herself  as  disagreeable  as  possible. 

"I  am  glad,"  said  she,  "you  find  time  for  worst- 
ed-work and  such  amusements.  You  must  enjoy 
life  vastly  more  than  young  ladies  who  have  to 
descend  to  such  vulgar  employments  as  darning 
stockings  1 " 

"  Indeed,"  returned  Helen,  "  I  hope  my  happiness 
does  not  depend  on  my  employments.  I  think  I 
could  darn  stockings  if  it  were  necessary." 

"But  it  is  not  necessary,  as  you  can  afford  to 
have  everything  of  that  sort  done  for  you.  I  only 
wish  other  people  were  so  fortunate." 

As  Mary  Anna's  father  was  very  well  able  to 
hiwe  her  stockings  mended  for  her,  Helen  knew 
not  what  reply  to  make  to  this  speech. 

Mary  Anna,  thus  arrested  in  the  progress  of  her 
remarks,  turned  to  another  point. 

'*I  suppose  you  were  much  delighted  to  find  you 
had  won  the  prize.  To  be  sure  you  deserved  it, 
for   how   you   did  work!     For    my    part,    I    did   not 


232  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

tliink  it  worth  so  much  trouble.  It  was  only  a 
paltry  desk,  after  alll" 

"Oh,  it  was  not  the  value  of  the  prize!"  said 
Helen. 

"But  the  glory,  I  suppose?" 

Helen  colored  a  little. 

"Well,  I  suppose  it  was  the  glory,  as  you  call 
it.*' 

She  felt  annoyed,  however,  and  looked  in  sur 
prise  at  Mary  Anna,  who  sat  smiling  with  an  aii 
of  sweetness  with  which  it  seemed  impossible  to 
quarrel. 

"  I  should  have  been  very  happy  to  have  you 
win  it,  glory  and  all,"  said  Helen,  kindly. 

"Oh,  I  assure  you  I  care  nothing  about  it.  I 
value  my  friendships  far  more  highly.  Indeed,  I 
made  no  effort  to  obtain  the  prize." 

Helen  was  surprised  at  this  announcement,  which 
however,  she  would  not  contradict. 

*  The  girls  all  say  they  did  not  try  for  it,'*  pur- 
sued Mary  Anna,  "because  they  saw  how  deter- 
mined you  were  to  win  it,  cost  what  it  might." 

"Mary  Anna!"  said  Helen,  "I  am  afraid  you  do 
not  love  me  so  well  as  you  did  once.  I  never 
heard  you  talk  so  before.  Why,  I  really  thought 
you  would  be  pleased  to  have  me  win  the  prize ! " 

"Well,  and  am  not  I  pleased?"  cried  Mary  Anna 
**I   am   sure   I   came   this    morning   on  purpose    to 


THE    HOLIDAYS.  233 

congratulate  you.  But  I  cannot  go  into  raptures. 
It  is  not  my  way.  My  feelings  are  deep  and 
strong." 

So  saying,  Mary  Anna  rose  to  take  leave,  and 
departed,  with  the  same  agreeable  countenance 
which  she  had  preserved  through  the  interview. 

The  moment  she  had  gone,  Helen  caught  up 
her  work  and  tried  to  go  on  with  it.  But  she  could 
not  see  to  take  one  stitch.  Her  eyes  kept  filling 
with  tears,  and  were  determined  to  keep  full.  She 
felt  pained  and  grieved  beyond  measure.  What 
had  she  done  to  deserve  such  treatment  from  hei 
dear  friend  ?  But,  after  all,  what  treatment  ?  Had 
anything  unkind  really  been  said  ? 

Her  mother  entering  the  room,  detected  the  tears, 
and  came  towards  her  full  of  that  sympathy  a  mother 
always  has  ready. 

*'  Mamma,"  said  Helen,  returning  her  mother's 
silent  caress,  "please  don't  ask  me  any  questions, 
for  I  hardly  know  myself  what  1  am  crying  for." 

*'To  tell  the  truth,  I  was  in  the  next  room,  and 
unavoidably  heard  all  that  passed." 

^*  Oh,  mamma !  I  am  so  sorry  1  Pray  don't  judge 
Mary  Anna  by  her  appearance  this  morning!  I 
never  heard  her  talk  so  before!  I  dare  say  she 
is  sorry  for  it  by  this  time." 

"I  advise  you  my  dear,  not  to  commit  your  hap- 
piness too  entirely  to  those  who   will  trifle  with  it 


234  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

when  occasion  suits.  Understand  me,  however,  1 
do  not  counsel  you  to  love  Mary  Anna  less,  but 
Christ  the  more.  Then  every  little  trial  will  drive 
you  to  Him  who  never  tampers  with  the  love 
yielded   Him." 

*'Lucy  thinks  Mary  Anna  has  some  excellent 
qualities  mamma." 

"I  do  not  doubt  it,  dear.  And  by  the  by,  do 
you  know  that  Mrs.  Lee  has  sent  for  Lucy  to  spend 
the  holidays  with  her?" 

"  Oh,  mamma !  But  Lucy  is  not  going,  I 
hope?" 

"  I  don't  know.  On  some  accounts,  I  think  it 
would  not  be  amiss.  Lucy  has  left  the  decision 
with  me." 

"She  admires  Mrs.  Lee,  I  know,  and  Mrs.  Lee 
Beems  really  to  love  her.  But  I  don't  think  it  fair 
to  take  her  from  us;  why  couldn't  she  go  and  spend 
one  day  and  come  home  at  night  ?  We  had  planned 
to  do  such  a  number  of  things  together!" 

*'  I  will  see  what  your  father  says.  But  don't  look 
80  dismal,  my  dear.  What  will  you  do  when  Lucy 
leaves  us  altogether?" 

"I  don't  even  dare  think  of  that." 

Mrs.  Whittier  stood  reflecting  a  few  moments, 
and  then  went  in  search  of  her  husband  whoso  key 
she  heard  now  in  the  door. 

"  You're  just  the  little  woman  I  want  to  see/*  he 


THE    HOLIDAYS.  23£ 

cried,  as  he  encountered  her.  "  Come  here,  and  let 
me  exhibit  some  of  the  things  I've  been  getting  foi 
those  girls.  And  by  the  by,  I  have  determined  that 
on  New- Year's  day  Lucy  shall  begin  to  have  an 
allowance,  equal  to  Helen's.  I  wonder  I  never 
thought  of  it  before.  How  has  the  child  got  along 
without  money?*' 

"I've  taken  care  of  that,**  said  Mrs.  Whittiei 
smiling  a  little  triumphantly  as  he  shook  his  head 
at  her.  "I  dreaded  proposing  it;  but  on  the  whole, 
she  bore  it  pretty  well.  Of  course  I  provide  her 
dress,  as  I  do  Helen's,  and  I  gave  her  to  understand 
that  her  quarterly  allowance  was  to  be  used  just 
as  she  pleased." 

'*  You  manage  these  things  admirably,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"Why,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  fancy  that  Lucy  re* 
ceives  favors  with  less  pain  and  more  pleasure  from 
me  than  from  you.*' 

"  Whal^  possible  difference  can  it  make,  from 
which  of  us  a  favor  comes  ? " 

"  I  have  tried  to  put  myself  in  her  place,  and  to 
feel  as  I  should  suppose  she  feels.  And  it  has  oc- 
curred to  me  that  she  might  regard  all  you  do  for 
her  as  done  because  you  feel  obliged  to  relieve  your 
sister;  whereas  what  I  do  must  clearly  proceed  from 
pure  love,  and  for  my  own  gratification." 

"  I  don't  know  that  you  are  not  right.     But  no\f 


236  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

look  at  these  things.  Which  shall  be  Lucy's  and 
which  Helen's?" 

"  You  must  come  and  look  at  mine  first,  4nJ 
have  you  got  nothing  for  Charles?" 

**0h,  yes;  a  trifle  or  two.  But  I  did  not  know 
what  would  best  please  him.  Now,  with  girls  it  is 
different." 

Mrs.  Whittier  prudently  restrained  the  smile  with 
which  she  was  tempted  to  honor  her  husband's  pur- 
chases. They  were  silks,  of  a  quality  and  color 
quite  mat  a  prqpos  for  school  girls,  who  went  into 
no  company. 

"You  haven't  said  which  shall  be  for  which," 
said  Mr.  Whittier.  "Now  I  thought  Lucy  would 
look  best  in  the  green,  and  Helen  in  the — what  color 
do  you  call  it?     Red?" 

*'  I  call  it  a  dashing  pink ;  and  as  for  the  *  green,' 
as  you  call  it ;  why,  my  dear,  it's  sky-blue !  Just  to 
think  of  our  sober  little  Lucy  in  sky-blue!" 

"It  is  green,  I  assure  you.  I  asked  for  green; 
and  the  shade  of  this  struck  my  fancy.  And 
as  to  the  other:  why,  I  am  sorry  you  don't  like 
it;  but  what  can  I  do?  I'll  exchange  them  in  the 
morning — " 

"Which  is  Sunday,  you  know." 

"Dear  me!  And  Monday  is  Christmas!  Weill 
I  did  my  best;  I  must  run  down  after  tea  and  see 
what  else  I  can  find.     As  to  those  'sky-blues'  and 


THE    HOLIDAYS.  237 

'flashy  pinks,'  Fm  sure  I  don't  see  what  you  will 
do  with  them,  unless  you'll  wear  them  yourself.  • 
wish  you  would." 

"I'll  save  them  for  wedding  dresses  for  Lucy's 
sisters,"  said  Mrs.  Whittier,  laughing.  "As  for 
Lucy  herself,  her  taste  is  too  Quaker-like  for  such 
colors.  And  now  let  me  tell  you;  Mrs.  Lee  has 
invited  her  for  the  holidays." 

"Indeed!  she  must  go  then,  of  course." 

"So  I  said,  at  first;  but  Miss  Prigott  has  sent  me 
such  a  queer  little  note  on  the  subject,  full  of  dark 
hints  and  mysteries;  I  hardly  know  whether  to  heed 
her  warnings  or  not." 

'*How  can  you  pay  the  least  attention  to  any- 
thing Miss  Prigott  says  on  a  subject  in  which  she 
has  no  concern?" 

"Why,  she  seems  to  know  or  suspect,  something 
that  may  be  worth  our  heeding.  She  reminds  me 
that  Dr.  Thornton  once  spoke  to  Lucy  of  his  brother 
Edgar  Thornton,  you  know,  as  if  he  were  an  ac- 
quaintance of  hers.  Lucy  denied,  at  the  time,  ever 
having  seen  him ;  but  Miss  Prigott  says  Dr.  Thornton 
evidently  did  not  believe  her,  and  that  she  heard 
Mrs.  Lee  afterwards  allude  to  it." 

"  Oh,  these  old  maids ! "  cried  Mr.  Whittier. 
"Hew  much  they  do  contrive  to  see  and  hear! 
Now,  my  own  opinion  is  this:  Let  Lucy  go.  It  will 
make  a  pleasant  change   for   her;   and    the    society 


238  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

of  Mrs.  Lee  would  be  an  advantage  to  any  young 
lady." 

*'But  Helen  will  be  so  disappointed!" 
**  Helen   must  learn  that  selJB.shness  is  an  unbe- 
coming, unchristian  trait." 

"Oh,  my  dear!     Do  you  think  Helen  selfish'" 
"  There  is  danger  in  that  line  for  an  only  daughter 
whose  every  wish  is  gratified." 

"We  will  consider  it  settled,  then,  that  Lucy  is 
to  go,"  said  Mrs.  Whittier,  reluctantly ;  and  ashamed 
to  own  that  she  too  felt  a  little  selfish  about  it. 

Lucy  therefore  went  to  Mrs.  Lee's,  where  she 
found  herself  in  a  most  congenial  atmosphere. 
Mrs.  Lee  herself,  though  not  young  in  years,  was 
at  heart  a  perfect  child;  as  fresh  and  as  simple  as 
Lucy.  She  felt  real  interest  in  hearing  everything 
she  could  learn  of  her  old  friend  and  school-mate; 
and  was  never  weary  of  the  little  sketches  Lucy 
gave  of  her  sisters  and  brothers.  She  suggested 
books  which  it  would  be  well  for  her  to  read,  as 
she  found  leisure,  and  subjects  on  which  to  write, 
But  the  cultivated  mind,  the  refined  taste,  the  sim- 
ple air,  -were  not  the  highest  attraction  to  Lucy, 
charming  as  they  were.  The  genial  piety  by  which 
the  life  was  adorned,  won  her  heart,  when  talent 
and  acquirement  only  won  admiration.  The  influ- 
ence of  a  genuine  Christian  is  noiseless  and  silent 
as   the   continual   droppings   of   a   summer   shower, 


THE    HOLIDAYS.  239 

which  refreshes  and  enriches  oftentimes  more  than 
the  heavy  fall  of  rain.  Who  has  not  felt  his  heart 
glow  with  quickened  warmth  at  a  mere  glimpse 
into  a  holy  soul?  Or  stimulated  to  like  grace  in 
witnessing  an  act  of  patience  or  forbearance?  If, 
amid  the  pressure  of  labor  at  school  and  at  home, 
Lucy  had  lost  aught  of  that  devout  temper  habitual 
with  her,  she  was  now  in  circumstances  to  recover 
it  ten-fold;  for  every  word,  and  look,  and  tone  of 
Mrs.  Lee,  free,  and  cheerful,  and  untrammelled  as 
true  liberty  in  Christ  could  make  it,  yet  said,  "I 
am  not  of  this  world."  There  were  throngs  of  vis- 
itors, and  the  claims  of  many  children,  and  the 
pressure  of  many  cares;  yet  there  hung  ever  about 
her,  like  a  halo,  that  serene  air,  unbroken,  unag- 
itated.  There  are  two  ways  in  which  genuine  piety 
developes  itself  One  busies  itself  chiefly  in  lopping 
off  useless,  diseased,  and  unsightly  branches,  and 
this  work  occupies  it  so  incessantly  that  it  has  not 
time  to  perceive  that  fruit  of  good  quality  is  not 
thus  produced.  The  other  rather  lets  the  branches 
take  care  of  themselves,  and  goes  to  the  root  of  the 
matter,  assured  that  if  all  is  right  there,  all  will 
become  right  outside.  To  this  latter  class  Mrs.  Lee 
belonged;  and  there  was,  so  to  speak,  a  naturalness 
about  her,  that  mere  religious  surface-work  would 
have  destroyed.  She  could  afford  to  be  enthusiastic, 
and  joyous,  and,  in  a  good  sense,  careless  and  im- 


2-iO  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

pulsive.  The  branches  took  care  of  tJiemselves.  Some 
vague  notions  of  this  sort  had  long  floated  in  Lucy's 
mind;  but  conversation  with  Mrs.  Lee,  and  close 
study  of  her  ingenuous,  open  character,  shaped 
these  notions  into  convictions  that  were  of  service 
to  her  to  an  unlimited  degree. 

But  this  happy  week  came  to  an  end,  as  even 
wretched  weeks  will,  and  Lucy  returned  to  her 
uncle  and  to  school,  greatly  refreshed,  and  with 
ner  head  and  heart  as  full  as  they  could  hold.  So 
full  of  better  things,  that  the  united  flatteries  of 
Mr.  Jackson,  Mr.  Lenoux,  and  all  the  other  teachers, 
only  reached  the  outside,  whence  they  fell  harmless. 

On  the  evening  after  her  departure.  Dr.  Thornton, 
who  formed  one  of  his  sister's  family,  was  sitting  by 
her  side  reading  a  foreign  letter,  one  sentence  of 
which,  if  it  is  not  impolite,  we  can  read  over  his 
shoulder,  without  troubling  ourselves  to  hear  the 
whole   sheet. 

"  Your  mysterious  hints  relative  to  a  certain  little 
maiden  who  shall  be  nameless,  were  duly  pondered. 
Anything  farther  in  that  line  will  receive  attention." 

"There,  you  see,  he  is  still  weak  in  that  point," 
Raid  Dr.  Thornton.  "I  told  you  how  it  would  be. 
Edgar  is  not  a  man  to  move  his  affections  from  post 
to  post,  like  men  on  a  chess-board." 

"But  did  you  not  tell  me  he  had  seen  her  but 
once?"  asked  Mrs.  Lee. 


THE    HOLIDAYS.  24J 

"  Once,  more  or  less,"  said  Dr.  Thornton,  smiling 
**  But  you  don't  consider  how  you  have  kept  the  fire 
alive  by  your  letters." 

"  Fire !  If  he  has  got  so  far  already,  I  yield  the 
field.  I  supposed  it  the  merest  fancy,  that  the  first 
pretty  face  he  saw  would  dispel." 

"Well,  if  I  take  the  field,  what  am  I  to  do? 
Skirmish  about,  and  attack  the  enemy  by  degrees?" 

"My  dear  brother,  do  remember  what  a  child  she 
still  is,  and  how  improper  it  would  be  to  put  such 
notions  into  her  head." 

"Meanwhile,  she  grows  every  day  older;  and  the 
first  thing  you'll  know,  some  country  lover  will  bear 
down  upon  the  field  and  carry  her  ofi*.  I  declare,  I 
am  half  tempted  to  do  it  myself." 

"You  shan't  have  her;  you're  not  half  good 
enough.  Besides,  you're  too  old.  No,  Edgar  found 
her,  and  I  hope  will  win  her,  but  there's  time  enough; 
they're  both  young." 

"  Well !  I  think  I'll  run  over  Miss  Herbert's  little 
brother,  and  half-kill  him,  and  then  make  love  to 
her  while  she's  nursing  him.  Edgar  shouldn't  be 
allowed  to  do  all  the  courting  in  the  family." 

Mrs.  Lee  looked  at  him.  He  yawned  and  half- 
smiled,  as  he  observed  it. 

"I  don't  think  that  case  so  hopeless,"  she  said, 
'*Mis8  Herbert's  father  may  yet  relent.  Do  not  be 
discouraged."     Dr.  Thornton   made  no   answer^   but 


242  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

got  up,  and  walked  with  an  uneasy  whistle  through 
the  room. 

At  length  ho  said,  "  How  old  did  you  say  Miss 
Lucy  is?" 

"Nearly  seventeen  now." 

**  And  Edgar  is  nearly  twenty-two.  Supposing  he 
stays  abroad  four  years;  she'll  then  be  twenty-one. 
Old  enough,  in  all  conscience." 

"  But  are  you  so  sure  that  he  will  remain  constant 
to  a  mere  shadow?  For  such,  one  look  at  even  a 
girl  like  Lucy,  seems  to  me." 

Dr.  Thornton  stopped  walking,  and  came  and 
stood  before  her. 

*'  Mark  my  words,"  said  he.  "  Edgar  will  marry 
eitner  Miss  Lucy  or  nobody.  I  say  it,  who  will 
have  either  Grace  Herbert  to  wife,  or  none." 

"  What  wills  you  boys  have ! "  said  Mrs.  Lee.  "  I 
hope  this  time,  however,  they'll  net  be  put  to  the 
test" 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


LUOT  IN   TROUBLE. 


ELEN  was  now  very  happy.  Walking  in 
the  steady  light  of  Lucy's  example,  she 
made  fewer  mistakes  in  judgment,  and 
was  less  easily  led  astray  by  her  own 
ardor  and  precipitation.  Charles,  too,  allowed  him- 
self to  be  guided  by  Lucy  when  he  would  listen  to 
no  other  voice.  And  this  was  no  small  point  gained; 
for  he  was  at  that  age  when  boys  think  it  particu- 
larly manly  to  pick  up  all  sorts  of  odd  and  question- 
able habits,  to  ornament  their  conversation  with 
slang  expressions,  and  to  defy  authority  and  laugh 
at  reproof  His  mother  quietly  rejoiced  in  the 
gentle,  refining  influence  now  exerted  over  him, 
while  she  admired  Lucy's  tact,  her  forbearance,  her 
wonderful  sagacity  in  her  intercourse  with  him. 

One  person,  however,  regarded  Lucy  with  an 
unfriendly  eye;  and  this  was  Helen's  friend,  Mary 
Anna.     Things  had  never  been  just  right  between 


244  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

the  two  since  the  interview  heretofore  described 
Not  that  Helen  cherished  unkind  feelings  towards 
her  friend;  but  that  Mary  Anna  herself  ever  re- 
tained  an  embarrassed,  painful  remembrance  of  he^ 
envious  and  selfish  temper  on  that  occasion.  Natu 
rally,  however,  Helen  had  been  drawn  more  and 
more  closely  to  her  cousin;  and  that  not  solely  on 
account  of  Lucy's  attractions.  It  was  the  result  of 
their  entire  sympathy  in  that  Christian  race  which 
they  pursued  together.  Mary  Anna  was  full  of 
worldly  tastes,  though  she  regarded  herself  as  a 
Christian.  She  had  not  so  learned  Christ  as  to 
delight  in  forsaking  even  innocent  pleasures  for  His 
sake,  and  she  knew  little  of  the  serenity  and  the 
peace  to  be  found  in  a  life  of  faith.  There  are 
many  uncomfortable  Christians  in  this  world.  Mary 
Anna  was  one.  She  performed  many  religious  du- 
ties because  others  did  so,  and  because  she  thought 
she  must.  Lucy  and  Helen,  on  the  contrary,  per- 
formed these  same  acts  because  it  was  their  privi- 
lege so  to  do.  With  what  cheerfulness  and  alac- 
rity we  sometimes  see  a  child  run  to  offer  a  flower 
to  its  mother!  But  how  sluggishly,  with  what  ap- 
parent difficulty,  the  same  act  is  performed,  when, 
instead  of  the  lively  emotion  of  love  to  its  parent, 
there  is  only  the  principle  of  obedience  to  her  com- 
mands in  exercise  I 

Poor   Mary   Anna   was   always   doing    something 


LUCY    IN    TROUBLE.  245 

to  appease  her  conscience;  and  this  was  made  neces* 
Bary  by  her  so  frequently  doing  something  to  tor- 
ture it.  Sometimes  for  weeks  together  she  would 
lead  a  perfectly  worldly  and  thoughtless  life;  then 
Bhe  would  have  spasms  of  goodness,  and  nothing 
could  be  more  ardent  than  her  devotion.  One  day 
Bhe  was  sure  she  did  not  deserve  to  be  called  a 
Christian,  and  on  the  next  her  mountain  would 
stand  strong,  and  she  would  say,  "  I  shall  never 
be  moved ! "  Now  there  was  doubtless  a  little  true 
grace  in  her  heart;  but  it  was  but  a  spark,  and 
a  slight  breath  of  temptation  threatened  its  exist- 
ence. But  feeble  as  it  was,  Mary  Anna  tried  to 
warm  and  animate  herself  thereby,  and  she  kept 
wondering  why  she  was  always  so  cheerless  and 
benumbed.  And  all  this  time  the  great  Fountain 
of  light  and  life  was  open  to  her;  she  only  needed 
to  turn  forever  away  from  the  contemplation  of 
herself,  to  be  henceforth  vivified,  strengthened,  and 
filled  with  all  the  fulness  of  Christ.  How  strangely 
it  would  look  to  see  a  plant  constantly  employed 
in  watching  its  own  growth,  and  bemoaning  itself 
on  account  of  its  tardy  progress,  when  all  it  had 
to  do  was  just  to  give  itself  up  to  the  nurture  of 
sun  and  rain,  and  the  kindly  influences  of  the  soil 
to  which  it  had  been  transplanted! 

"  I  wish  I  had  your  happy  disposition  1 "  she  one 
morning  said  to  Lucy,  as  the  two  cousins  entered 


246  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

the  school-room.  "  But  everything  depends  on  tem 
perament.  I  was  born  with  a  desponding  temper, 
and  I  suppose  there  is  no  escaping  it." 

Lucy  wanted  very  much  to  infuse  into  this  cloudy 
mind  some  of  her  own  sunshine,  but  she  hesitated 
because  she  felt  herself  young  and  inexperienced. 

"I  was  not  born  with  a  particularly  happy  dispo- 
sition," she  said.  *'  Indeed,  I  think  I  used  to  suffer 
a  great  deal  of  either  real  or  fancied  misery." 

"And  are  you  always  happy  now?" 

^^  Always  I"  replied  Lucy,  emphatically. 

**0h,  well,  you  have  everything  to  make  you  so. 
Tour  uncle's  family  just  bow  down  and  worship 
you,  and  you  have  all  sorts  of  elegances  and  com- 
forts. Perhaps  you  would  miss  them  a  little  if  you 
should  lose  them." 

Lucy  was  a  little  pained  by  these  remarks.  She 
felt  that  she  could  leave  all  these  "elegances  and 
comforts"  cheerfully,  should  it  be  necessary.  Her 
happiness  was  built  on  less  perishable  objects. 

"  Oh,  Mary  Anna  1 "  said  Helen,  "  I  wish  you 
could  only  catch  a  little  of  Lucy's  faith!  I  wish 
you  knew  how  very  happy  you  might  be  if  you 
would  I" 

Mary  Anna  sighed.  This  was  one  of  her  de- 
sponding days.  She  retired  with  a  heavy  heart 
to  her  desk,  where  amid  her  books  she  forgot  foi 
a  season  her  depression.     Indeed,  she  soon  appeared 


LUCY    IN    TROUBLE.  247 

cheerful  and  even  merry.  But  Helen,  who  knew 
her  well,  perceived  that  her  friend's  mirth  was  only 
assumed,  and  that  the  comfortless  expression  was 
not  long  absent  from  her  face. 

*'  Ah  !  what  can  I  do  for  her  ?  "  thought  she.  "  I 
wish  I  might  tell  her  how  many  real  troubles  Lucy 
has;  then  her  cheerfulness  would  puzzle  her,  I'm 
sure:  and  she  would  see  how  well  it  is  worth 
seeking." 

Everything  seemed  to  be  going  on  prosperously 
with  Lucy;  but  one  evening,  as  they  all  sat  va« 
riously  occupied  together,  she  suddenly  fainted  and 
fell  from  her  chair.  In  a  few  moments  she  recov- 
ered herself,  and  would  have  resumed  her  lessons 
had  her  uncle  allowed  it.  But  he  looked  at  her 
with  anxiety,  and  ordered  her  to  proceed  at  once 
to  bed.  Accordingly,  Lucy  was  preparing  to  take 
leave  for  the  night,  when  Helen,  who  had  been 
not  a  little  agitated  and  alarmed,  cried  out  reproach- 
fully: "Oh,  Lucy!  it  all  comes  of  those  everlasting 
shirts ! " 

"What  everlasting  shirts?'*  inquired  Mrs.  Whit- 
tier. 

"Oh,  Helen!  how  could  you?"  cried  Lucy.  She 
ran  from  the  room,  and  Helen  was  hurrying  after 
her,  but  was  detained  by  her  father. 

*'Let  your  mother  accompany  Lucy,"  said  he. 
"For   my  part,   I  wish  to  know  the  meaning  of  all 


248  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

these  *  Oh,  Lucy's ! '  and  *  Oh,  Helen's  I  *  Come  1  wLai 
is  it  all  about?" 

•  **  Indeed,  papa,  you  must  not  ask  me.  It  is  a 
secret  of  Lucy's.  I  never  meant  to  tell  it.  What 
I  said  just  slipped  out  before  I  knew  it." 

*'Upon  my  word,"  returned  he,  "it  must  be  a 
mighty  secret  which  you  are  not  allowed  to  repeat. 
But  your  mother  assuredly  is  a  party  to  it?" 

"No,  papa;  Lucy  would  not  allow  me  to  tell 
mamma." 

"I  hate  mysteries,"  said  her  father,  "and,  above 
all  things,  the  secrets  of  school-girls.  I  am  sure 
there  is  something  wrong  in  this  affair.  It  is 
strange,  indeed,  in  Lucy  to  confide  to  you  matters 
you  deem  it  your  duty  to  conceal  from  us ! " 

Quite  thrown  off  her  guard,  by  hearing  Lucy  thus 
attacked,  Helen  proceeded  to  tell,  in  the  most  in- 
coherent and  eager  manner,  that  Lucy  had  learned 
that  her  eldest  brother,  John,  would  go  to  sea,  and 
that  her  mother  was  killing  herself  by  working  at 
night  on  his  outfit;  how,  after  writing  in  vain,  to 
beseech  him  not  to  go,  Lucy  had  undertaken,  by 
way  of  relieving  her  mother,  to  make  up  his  shirts; 
how  she  had  bought,  cut  out,  and  made  up  eleven, 
and  was  now  at  work  on  the  twelfth.  That  she 
had  risen  early  and  sat  up  late  to  do  this,  and  fi. 
nally,  how  she  had  conjured  herself  never  to  lisp  a 
word  on  the  subject. 


LUCY    IN    TROITBLE.  24S 

During  this  story,  her  mother  had  returned  tc 
the  parlor,  looking  grave  and  anxious,  and  Helen 
tnought  both  her  parents  were  hurt  or  displeased 

"Lucy  has  shown  great  want  of  confidence  in 
us,"  said  they. 

Helen  looked  on  in  dismay.  She  felt  that  Lucy 
had  done  wrong ;  but  then  it  was  an  error  of  judg- 
ment; such  an  one  as  she  might  herself  have  fallen 
into.  In  fact,  she  was  sure  she  should  have  done 
as  Lucy  had,  in  a  like  case. 

"  Mamma !  "  said  she,  encouraged  by  her  own  re- 
flections, "I  am  sure  you  cannot  blame  Lucy  for 
wanting  to  relieve  her  mother!" 

'*  Certainly  not.  I  admire  her  devotion  as  much  as 
you  can  do.  But  she  knew  I  would  cheerfully  have 
had  this  work  done  for  her;  and  her  keeping  it  such 
a  secret,  proves  that  she  knew  she  was  doing  wrong." 

"  Oh,  mamma !  I  told  her  you  would  have  it  done 
for  her,  but  that  always  made  her  entreat  me  to 
say  nothing  to  you  about  it.  She  said  she  should 
be  ashamed  to  have  you  do  anything  more  for  hei 
family,  after  all  you  had  done." 

^^ Nonsense!"  cried  Mr.  Whittier. 

"  I  should  feel  just  so  in  her  circumstances,  at 
any  rate,"  cried  Helen.  "And  I  know  both  you 
and  mamma  would  have  thought  it  presuming  in 
Lucy  to  come  here  and  ask  you  to  have  John's 
Bhirts  made  up  for  him." 


250  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

Her  father  laughed.  "Well,  keep  cool!  Keep 
cool !  I  am  not  inclined  to  send  Lucy  to  the  stake, 
my  dear." 

But  now  Lucy,  the  very  picture  of  sweetness  and 
ingenuousness,  came  back  to  plead  her  own  cause. 

*'I  know  I  have  done  wrong,  uncle,'*  said  she; 
"but  at  the  time  I  did  not  see  that  I  was  wrong." 

She  had  shed  many  tears,  and  looked  pale  and 
ill.  Her  uncle  and  aunt  were  touched,  as  they  re- 
garded her,  and  her  aunt  drew  her  into  a  comfort- 
able seat  at  her  side,  while  Helen  threw  herself  at 
her  feet,  and  kissed  her  hands  again  and  again. 

"  Foolish  child ! "  said  her  uncle,  patting  her  on 
the  head.  "Did  you  think  your  aunt  would  refuse 
you  the  comfort  of  having  this  sewing  done?" 

"No,  uncle,  but—" 

"But  you  thought  she  could  not  afford  it?" 

Lucy  thought  no  such  thing.  She  looked  em- 
barrassed and  anxious. 

"My  dear  Lucy,"  he  continued,  "too  much  grati- 
tude annoys  me  far  more  than  too  little  could.  You 
need  not  feel  so  terribly  burdened  under  the  weight 
of  what  your  aunt  and  myself  are  doing  for  you. 
What  is  it,  after  all?  A  matter  of  a  few  dollars 
and  cents ! " 

Lucy  allowed  herself  to  be  cheered  by  her  uncle's 
attempt  to  cheer  her,  and  by  her  aunt's  and  Helen's 
caresses;  but  there  remained  a  sore  spot  about  hei 


LUCY    IN    TROUBLE.  251 

Heart  still.  It  amounted  almost  to  physical  pain 
Full  of  refined  and  sensitive  feeling,  and  the  daugh 
ter  of  a  man  who  lacked,  and  would  ever  lack,  abun- 
dance; how  many  mortifications  had  she  met  withl 
How  many  still  lay  before  her!  And  yet  a  queen, 
with  a  worldly  and  proud  spirit,  might  have  envied 
this  young  girl,  as  she  passed  through  life,  and 
have  given  the  very  crown  from  her  head  and 
the  sceptre  from  her  hand,  for  the  Christian  forti- 
tude and  cheerful  endurance  with  which,  by  its 
very  discipline.  Heaven  was  arming  her. 

"Which  of  the  boys  is  this  John?"  asked  her 
uncle. 

"He  comes  next  to  Hatty;  he  is  about  fourteen 
now.  He  got  restless  some  time  ago,  and  wanted 
to  go  to  sea,  but  gave  up  going  on  finding  how  we 
all  felt  about  it.  But  Arthur,  who  really  seems 
older  than  John,  has  written  me  about  it  since; 
and  not  many  weeks  ago,  mother  wrote  herself. 
She  said  she  and  father  had  never  been  so  tried 
and  perplexed,  but  that  they  had  at  last  decided 
to  let  him  go.  It  was  after  this  that  Arthur  let  me 
know  how  hard  mother  was  working  to  get  him 
ready,  and  how  the  labor  and  the  anxiety  had  worn 
upon  her.  I  made  him  promise  to  tell  me  exactly 
how  things  went  on  at  home,  for  I  know  father  and 
mother  would  try  to  keep  all  their  trials  and  cares 
from  me." 


252  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"  But  this  John ;  why,  was  not  he  the  little  fellow 
who  undertook  to  black  my  boots?  He  surely  is 
not  fit  to  go  to  sea." 

"He  has  grown  astonishingly  fast  since  thei\ 
they  say;  and  feels  as  big  as  a  man." 

"  But  excuse  me ;  if  he  isn't  a  fool,  he*s  a  rogue, 
f  am  sure.  For  he  pretended  to  me,  he  thought 
himself  made  of  dust,  and  I  don't  know  what  other 
nonsense." 

Lucy  laughed.  *'He  is  a  real  rogue,"  she  said, 
"  and  until  you  know  him  well,  you  wouldn't  know 
what  to  make  of  him." 

*'  Has  he  any  really  bad  habits  ? " 

"  Oh  no,  sir !  he  is  only  a  little  wild  and  restless. 
He  is  a  bright  boy  about  some  things;  but  he  never 
liked  going  to  school,  nor  confinement  of  any  kind. 
Arthur  says  he  told  father  he  felt  crowded  on  the 
farm.     He  wanted  more  room." 

*'I  fancy  he  would  find  himself  more  'crowded* 
in  a  hammock  at  sea.  I'll  tell  you  what  you  may 
do — but  stay,  I'll  do  it  myself;  it  is  not  safe  for  you 
to  be  sitting  here,  looking  so  pale.  Go  to  bed,  dear 
child,  and  I  will  write  to  your  father  about  John. 
I  do  not  doubt  we  shall  devise  something  better  for 
him  than  going  to  sea,  at  present  at  least." 

Lucy  thanked  her  uncle  warmly,  and  went  tc  bed 
with  one  care  the  less.  For,  however  she  had  tried 
to  leave  John  in  the  hands  of  God,  she  knew  too 


LUC\    IN    TROUBLE.  353 

well  the  temptations  and  dangers  of  the  hfe  of  a 
boy  at  sea,  to  be  free  from  great  concern  on  his 
account. 

Helen  saw  plainly  that  her  parents  loved  Lucy 
better  than  ever,  since  this  little  occurrence.  As  for 
herself,  her  head  was  as  full  of  plans  as  it  could  hold. 

"What,  if  she  should  have  a  fortune  left  her? 
Would  it  not  be  delightful  to  send  it  all  to  Lucy's 
hard-working  father  ?  " 

"  Suppose  some  rich  old  man  should  meet  Lucy  in 
the  street,  admire  her  lovely  face,  take  the  trouble 
to  inquire  into  her  history,  and  then  suddenly  die, 
leaving  her  heiress  to  all  his  property?  Stranger 
things  had  happened." 

"  What,  if  she  should  herself  make  up  and  send 
to  Lucy's  mother  a  great  box  of  garments  for  those 
children  ?  " 

This  last  idea,  it  must  be  owned,  had  a  matter-of- 
fact  air  about  it,  hardly  worthy  so  brilliant  an  imag- 
ination as  Helen's.  Her  mother,  while  she  smiled 
at  the  first,  thought  favorably  of  the  latter  sug 
gestion. 

"But  not  at  present,"  she  added,  as  she  saw 
Helen's  eager  countenance.  "  For  it  would  perhaps 
annoy  Lucy,  now  that  she  has  been  so  disturbed 
about  those  shirts.  By  and  by  we  will  manage  it 
80  as  to  give  her  unmixed  pleasure." 

"Shall  you  let  me  make  up  the  things,  mamma? 


tH  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"  I  think  not.  There  is  that  poor  girl  of  whom 
we  heard  yesterday;  she  supports  both  herself  and 
a  blind  mother  by  her  needle.  I  will  give  her  this 
w-ork." 

"Shall  you  do  nothing  yourself,  then?" 

"No,  I  think  not.** 

Helen  looked  disappointed. 

"I  don't  think  there  is  much  merit  in  giving 
things  that  it  costs  us  no  trouble  to  give,"  said  she. 

"There  is  no  want  of  merit  in  it;  is  there?" 

"  Why,  no,  not  exactly.  But  I  was  thinking, 
mamma,  that  if  you  and  I  should  make  up  the 
things  all  ourselves,  it  would  cost  us  some  self- 
denial  to  do  it,  and — " 

Her  mother  smiled. 

"I  see  how  it  is,"  said  she.  "You  wish  to  eari 
a  right  to  think  highly  of  yourself" 

"  Oh  no,  mamma !     I  do  not,  indeed !  ** 

"  I  will  not  dispute  this  point  with  you,  my  dear. 
But  tell  me,  what  is  your  object  in  preparing  this 
box  for  your  aunt?" 

"Why,  to  relieve  her  from  sewing  so  much,  and 
to  please  both  her  and  Lucy." 

"  Well,  and  is  not  this  object  gained  by  the  plan  1 
propose.  You  see  it  is  not  a  question  of  merit  at 
all.  The  question  is,  how  can  we  do  most  good? 
not,  how  can  we  secure  most  honor  to  ourselves?" 

"Then   there   never   can    be    any   merit    in   youi 


LUCY    IN    TROUBLE.  255 

giving,  mamma.  You  have  only  to  put  your  hand 
in  your  pocket  and  take  out  the  money.'* 

"Well,'*  returned  her  mother,  smiling,  "I  ought 
to  be  thankful  that  the  money  is  there  when  I  want 
it,  and  that  I  have  the  heart  to  give  it  away  when  it 
is  needed.  But  let  me  tell  you,  for  your  comfort, 
that  I  have  to  deny  myself  every  hour  the  pleasure 
of  relieving  others,  as  I  should  like  to  do." 

"  But,  mamma,  does  not  the  Bible  urge  us  to  do 
other  things  for  the  poor  than  just  give  them 
money  ?  " 

'*  Undoubtedly,  my  dear  Helen.  We  were  speak- 
ing HOW  of  only  one  case.  You  are  confined  by 
your  studies  at  school  and  at  home  a  very  large 
portion  of  each  day,  and  absolutely  need  refresh- 
ment and  exercise  during  every  spare  moment. 
Otherwise  I  would  allow  you  to  make  up  as  many 
garments  as  you  chose.  But  you  must  wait,  in 
patience,  till  the  proper  time  comes.  There  will  be 
some  merit  in  that,  my  dear." 

"  Well,  then,  when  I  leave  school  I  mean  to  spend 
all  my  time  in  sewing  for  poor  people  and  fitting  up 
boxes  of  clothing  for  them.  And  I  will  send  cart- 
loads of  nice,  comfortable  things,  to  old  women,  and 
poor  sickly  girls,  and  neglected  little  children  1 " 

Her  mother  would  not  check  her  youthful  enthu- 
siasm by  even  a  look  of  dissent  or  of  doubt. 

Her  father  now  threw  down  his  paper  and  called 


25ft  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

flelen  to  come  to  him.  *'  When  I  was  a  young 
man,"  said  he,  "  I  heard  some  friends  of  mine 
speaking  of  a  young  lady  in  the  neighborhood j 
and  one  of  them  said  to  me,  '  Whittier,  you  are 
a  good-looking  fellow;  why  don't. you  deliver  thii^ 
damsel  from  the  hands  of  the  cross  old  lady  who 
has  charge  of  her?     She  is  an  heiress,  it  is  said.' 

"Now,  I  had  a  notion  in  my  young  head,  that 
heiresses  were,  of  necessity,  proud,  heartless,  and 
worldly,  so  I  took  no  notice  of  the  conversation, 
although  I  unavoidably  listened  to  it. 

"*They  say  this  aunt  is  a  stingy  old  soul,  who 
won't  let  the  poor  girl  spend  a  penny.  But  at  night, 
when  the  old  lady  is  in  bed,  she  sits  up  and  makes 
garments  for  the  poor  in  the  neighborhood  with  her 
own  hands.' 

*'  Several  of  the  young  men  laughed  and  shrugged 
their  shoulders.  For  my  part,  I  thought  such  a 
maiden,  without  a  penny  in  her  pocket,  would  be  a 
richer  treasure  to  me  than  many  another,  with  her 
weight  in  gold  at  my  disposal.  And,  as  it  hap- 
pened, I  met,  admired,  and  loved  her,  and  even 
asked  her  to  become  my  wife." 

"And  what  did  she  say,  papa?" 

"  You  can  ask  her  yourself,"  he  answered,  point- 
ing to  the  corner  where  her  mother  sat,  smiling  and 
shaking  her  head  at  him. 

"Oh,    mamma!"    cried    Helen,    throwing    herself 


LUCY    IN    TROUBLE.  257 

upon  her  knees  at  her  raother's  feet,  and  kissing  the 
hands  which  had  so  many  years  ago  done  these 
works  of  mercy,  "  how  I  love  you !  How  glad  I 
am  that  papa  married  you  1  " 

She  could  find  no  words  with  which  to  express 
her  surprise  and  pleasure. 

"My  dear  Helen,  you  must  not  think  of  my  be- 
loved aunt  as  a  *  stingy  old  soul ! '  That  was  just  the 
folly  of  those  young  men,  you  know  1 " 

Her  father  looked  affectionately  upon  them  both, 
and  even  got  up  to  kiss  one  of  those  hands  Helen 
was  caressing. 

The  influence  of  this  hour  followed  Helen  through 
life.  Again  and  again,  when  denying  herself  a  pass- 
ing pleasure  for  the  sake  of  administering  to  the 
wants  of  others,  the  image  of  her  mother,  an  un- 
worldly, loving  young  girl,  came  and  stood  as  it 
were  by  her  side,  smiled  upon  her  at  her  task, 
and  made  it  sunshine  in  the  very  depths  of  hei 
heart  1 

"  I  must  tell  you  one  thing,  however,/'  added  hei 
mother,  "of  some  importance.  Before  your  father 
'  met,  admired,  and  loved  me,*  every  cent  I  possessed, 
with  the  exception  of  a  small  sum  in  the  hands  of 
Miss  Prigott,  was  lost  at  sea.  All  my  property, 
with  that  exception,  was  invested  in  a  clumsy  man- 
ner, BO  that  even  the  insurance  had  not  been  re- 
newed when  it  should  have   been.     Tho   very    daj 


258  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

after  the  insurance  ran  out,  my  worldly  wealth  sank 
like  lead  in  the  mighty  waters." 

"That's  the  best  part  of  the  story!"  cried  Helen 
*'  I'm  so  glad  papa  married  you  for  yoursdf,  and  not 
your  money ! " 

'*  You're  a  romantic  little  thing,"  said  her  father 
"  What  do  you  suppose  people  live  on  who  haven't 
money  ?  " 

Helen  did  not  know;  nor  did  she  much  care. 

"How  came  Miss  Prigott  with  money"  of  yours, 
mamma?" 

"Oh,  it  happened  so.  At  the  time  of  my  down- 
fall, she  was  very  kind;  she  came  and  stood  by  me 
when  other  friends  grew  cool:  I  shall  never  forget 
it.  She  even  offered  to  divide  her  own  property 
with  me.  But  of  course  I  could  not  allow  her  to  do 
that." 

"I  hope  I  shall  learn  to  like  her  after  this, 
mamma." 

"I  hope  so  too,  my  dear;  for,  with  all  her  oddi 
ties,  she  is  a  generous,  kind-hearted  woman  and 
her  life  has  been  full  of  trouble." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


A   VISIT  FROM  MISS  PRIGOTT, 


HAT  are  these  little  odd-shaped  things?* 
said    Charles    one    day,   approaching   the 
table  where  Lucy  sat  writing. 
She  looked  up  and  smiled. 
"  Little  letters  for  the  children,"  said  she. 
"Two,  four,  six,  eight,  nine!     But  some  of  them 
must  be  too  young  to  read." 

"They're  just  as  pleased  as  if  they  could,"  said 
Lucy;  and  opening  one  of  them,   she  showed  him 
that  it  contained  nothing  but  a  host  of  paper  babies, 
neatly  painted ;  and  paper  furniture  to  match.     "The 
baby  can  understand  such  a  letter  as  that,"  said  she. 
"He'll  tear  them  all  up,  and  put  the  rest  in  his 
mouth   and   choke   himself      You   had   better   send 
him  a  hammer  and  some  nails." 
"I  would,  if  they'd  go  in  a  letter." 
"Well,  what's  in  tlie  next  biggest  letter?" 


260  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILV. 

She  opened  it,  and  showed  him  a  number  of  pio 
tures  that  she  had  drawn  for  Horace. 

"He'll  throw  them  down  the  well." 

"  Perhaps  you'll  like  this  better,  then !  and  she 
opened  a  third  little  sheet,  on  which,  with  great 
care  and  patience,  she  had  printed  with  her  pen  a 
miniature  epistle  in  verse.  Charles  shouted  with 
laughter  as  he  read  it,  and  was  about  seizing  the 
five  remaining  letters,  but  Lucy  put  her  hand  over 
them.     "You  can't  read  those,"  said  she. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  must,"  said  he,  seizing  them  and 
running  off. 

Lucy  smiled,  and  went  on  with  the  letter  she 
was  writing,  simply  saying,  "  I  know  you  won't 
read  them,  when  you  know  I  don't  wish  it." 

"There  is  no  fun  in  trying  to  tease  you,"  said 
he,  throwing  the  letters  down  before  her.  "Now, 
if  it  had  been  Helen,  she'd  have  screamed,  and  run 
after  me,  and  we  should  have  had  a  regular  time 
of  it." 

"  It  puts  me  out  of  breath  to  run,  and  Miss  Prig 
ott  says  I  mustn't." 

"And  I  suppose  you  never  do!  Oh,  no!  Never 
hurry  upstairs?  I  hope  Miss  Prigott  will  remem- 
ber you  in  her  will." 

"What's  that  about  'Miss  Prigott  ?'  cried  a  lit- 
tle fine  voice;  and  that  lady  came  smiling  in,  in 
the  most  unexpected  manner.     Charles  lost  no  time 


A    VISIT    FROM    MISS    PRIGOTT.  261 

in  retreatiDg,  under  pretense  of  calling  his  mother 
and  Lucy  rose  to  meet  the  little  woman,  very  cor 
dially. 

"  It  is  a  long  time  since  I've  seen  you,"  said 
sne.  "My  aunt  said  yesterday,  you  had  quite  for 
saken  us." 

"I've  come  to  spend  the  day  now,  knowing  you 
would  be  at  home  from  school  on  Saturday.  And 
80  you  must  just  put  away  all  this  writing,  and  sit 
down  with  me,  unless  you  think  the  old  woman's 
company  will  be  tedious." 

Every  school-girl  knows  the  value  of  Saturday; 
few  would  consent  to  sacrifice  one  to  a  Miss 
Prigott.  Lucy  looked  dismayed  for  a  moment 
at  the  prospect,  but  would  not  let  herself  look  so 
longer. 

"  Can't  I  give  up  one  day  ?  "  thought  she,  as  she 
prepared  to  lay  aside  books  and  papers  on  which 
her  heart  was  intent.  She  had  planned  to  do  so 
much  this  day,  and  it  was  not  easy  for  her  at  once 
to  change  these  plans;  her  mind  felt  stiff,  and  would 
not  turn  readily  to  a  new  class  of  interests.  But 
she  ran — yes,  she  ran  up  to  her  room,  found  her 
stocking-basket,  and  came  smiling  back,  saying  to 
herself,  "It's  well  to  find  out  how  selfish  one  is, 
now  and  then." 

**  There,  give  those  to  me,"  said  Miss  Prigott.  "  I 
brought  my  thimble  on  purpose." 


262  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  like  to  have  you  mend  m^ 
stockings." 

*'I  shall  do  it,  nevertheless;  and  you,  meanwhile, 
are  to  sit  down  here  by  my  side  and  tell  me  all 
about  your  school.  For  I  hear  they  are  spoiling 
you  there,  and  making  you  think  yourself  a  genius." 

*'I  haven't  begun  to  think  so  yet;  but  I  am  afraid 
I  shall,  if  I  get  beyond  mending  my  own  clothes." 

"Nonsense,  my  dear.  Now,  what  are  your  stu- 
dies." 

"  French,  for  one." 

"What's  the  use  of  that?  Who  do  you  ever 
meet  that  can't  talk  English?" 

"I  meet  no  one  now,  but  I  may.  And  in  these 
days,  no  one  thinks  of  not  reading  French,  at 
least." 

"Well,  what  next?** 

"  Latin." 

"And  who  talks  Latin,  pray?" 

"No  one;  it  is  a  dead  language.  But  I  study  it 
in  the  hope  of  being  of  use  to  my  brothers  in 
time." 

"Well;  one  tongue  is  as  much  as  1  can  master. 
If  yours  is  as  troublesome  as  mine,  I  wonder  you 
want  to  give  it  a  helping  hand.  I  suppose  you 
study  Greek  and  Hebrew,  too." 

"I  don't  yet;  but  perhaps  1  shall  one  of  these 
days.     Intellectual  Philosophy  comes  next." 


A   VISIT    FROM    MISS    PRIGOTT.  263 

"But  don't  you  study  grammar?'* 

"Not  English  grammar.  Mr.  Jackson  says  that 
is  the  last  study  to  be  taken  up,  rather  than  the 
first — as  at  most  schools." 

"I  suppose,  then,  his  pupils  learn  their  A  B  C'b 
after  they've  learned  to  read.'* 

"We  have  none  so  young;  perhaps  they  would, 
if  we  had,"  said  Lucy,  smiling. 

"How  do  you  expect  to  speak  correctly,  if  you 
do  not  study  grammar?" 

"By  listening  to  those  who  speak  good  English, 
I  suppose.  And  then  our  compositions  are  corrected 
every  week,  and  mistakes  there  are  pointed  out 
to  us." 

"  Everything  goes  backward  nowadays ! "  sighed 
Miss  Prigott.  "I  expect  to  see  babies  taught  to 
fly  before  they  can  run.  Though  I  hope  I  shan't 
live  so  long." 

"  I  think  aunt  does  not  know  you  are  here,"  said 
Lucy.     "I'll  go  up  to  her  room  and  see." 

"  Have  you  told  me  all  your  studies  ? " 

"No;  I'll  tell  the  rest  when  I  come  back." 

"  I  dare  say  you  don't  touch  a  needle  at  your 
school." 

"Oh,  no!  we  have  only  gentlemen  as  teachers!' 

Lucy  returned  in  a  few  moments  with  other  work, 
and  sat  down  again  near  Miss  Prigott,  who  was  get- 
ting a  little  deaf. 


264  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"Aunt  will  be  down  presently,"  said  she. 

"What  have  you  got  there?  Let  me  look  at  it 
How  beautifully  you  sew!" 

"I  am  quite  proud  of  my  sewing,"  she  an 
Bwered. 

"Proud!  that's  very  wrong,  my  dear." 

*''Well,  I  am.  And  of  my  bread,  too.  Because 
I  had  no  taste  for  such  things,  and  disliked  doing 
them  excessively;  and  when  I  sew  well,  or  make 
good  bread,  or  anything  of  the  sort,  I  know  it  is 
clear  gain  on  myself.  So  much  wild  land  cultivated 
and  made  useful." 

Miss  Prigott  meditated  on  this  speech,  and  turned 
it  over  and  over  in  her  little  mind ;  but  did  not  un- 
derstand it  at  all.  Lucy  was  glad  to  see  her  aunt 
come  in;  and  took  refuge  behind  the  large  piece  of 
work  on  which  she  was  occupied. 

"Do  you  still  like  your  boarding-place?"  asked 
Mrs.  Whittier,  after  welcoming  her  guest. 

"Yes;  but  my  life  is  very  solitary.  I  think  of 
taking  a  house  on  that  account.  To  tell  the  truth,  1 
came  to  consult  you  about  it.  I  suppose  you  wonder 
how  1  have  been  so  busy  as  to  have  no  time  to  come 
to  see  you.  But  my  time  has  been  fully  occupied, 
I  assure  you.  Now  guess,  if  j  )u  can,  what  I've 
Deen  doing.  But  I  may  as  well  tell  you,  first  as  last. 
I've  been  building  a  house." 

Her  hearers  were  as  much  surprised  as  she  wished 


A   VISIT    FROM    MISS    PRIGOTT.  26{V 

them  to  be;  and  slie  was  herself  so  overcome  by  the 
shock  she  felt  she  had  given  them,  that  she  was 
obliged  to  fan  herself  into  breath  again. 

"Yes,  I  have  built  a  house.  All  last  summer, 
while  you  were  idling  in  the  country,  my  house  was 
going  up;  by  the  first  of  May  it  will  be  habitable. 
Every  brick  I  selected  with  my  own  hands;  1  found 
fault  with  every  board;  and  examined  every  nail. 
I  lost  seven  pounds  of  flesh,  by  coming  into  town  so 
often  to  remind  the  workmen  that  I  was  in  a  hurry, 
and  to  watch  them,  lest  they  should  squander  away 
their  time.  They  treated  me  very  ill,  indeed,  and 
once  began  to  joke  in  my  hearing,  and  say  to  each 
other,  they  hoped  I  had  picked  out  my  husband  as 
carefully  as  I  did  my  bricks  and  nails.  I  assure  you 
I  never  went  nigh  them  again." 

*'  I  wonder  we  have  not  heard  of  your  exploits," 
said  Mrs.  Whittier,  trying  not  to  laugh. 

"Ah,  1  know  how  to  keep  a  secret!  I've  not  lived 
fifty  years  for  nothing.  I  contracted  for  the  house 
under  a  feigned  name." 

"And  what  was  that?"  asked  Helen,  who  had 
entered  in  the  midst  of  the  conversation,  and  had 
been  pinching  Lucy  to  make  her  laugh,  ever  since 

"Mrs.  Trogip,  my  dear." 

"That's  the  very  house  papa  was  describing  tq 
us  a  few  weeks  ago ! "  cried  Helen. 

^*  What  did  he  think  of  it,  my  dear  ?  " 


266  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"Ob,  lie  said  it  was  a  fine  house — to  look  at,'* 
she  added  in  a  low  voice,  for  she  did  not  wish  to 
inform  poor  Miss  Prigott  that  he  had  pronounced  it 
badly  built. 

"  But,  my  dear  Miss  Prigott,"  said  Mrs.  Whittier, 
"  you  surely  don*t  intend  to  occupy  that  great  house 
by  yourself." 

"We  shall  see,"  said  Miss  Prigott,  mysteriously. 

*'  I  do  believe  she's  going  to  offer  herself  to  some 
body,"  whispered  Helen  to  Lucy. 

"I've  been  half-distracted  with  the  way  people 
have  served  me,"  continued  Miss  Prigott.  "  One 
man  sent  me  a  card  on  which  he  stated  that  he 
could  furnish  wedding-cake  cheaper  and  better  than 
any  in  the  world;  another  sent  word  at  what  rate 
he  could  provide  white  gloves  by  the  dozen.  All 
those  saucy  clerks   at  Horton's   asked,  whenever  I 

ordered  anything,  '  Shall  I  send  the  bill  to  Mr. ?' 

as  if  any  Mr.  in  the  world  had  the  settling  of  my 
affairs!" 

"  But  this  looks  really  suspicious,"  said  Mrs.  Whit- 
tier. "I  certainly  think  it  must  be  inquired  into. 
Who  can  be  the  happy  man?" 

Miss  Prigott  was  in  ecstacies;  but  not  one  word 
fiirther  would  she  vouchsafe,  and  Helen,  hearing 
her  father  in  the  hall,  rushed  out,  laughing,  to  tell 
him  the  news. 

**Papa,   don't  you  think  Miss  Prigott  is  going  to 


A    VISIT    FROM    MISS    PRIGOTT.  267 

be  married  ?  "  she  said,  as  well  as  she  could  between 
her  paroxysms  of  laughter. 

"  Nonsense  I "  was  the  brief  response,  as  Mr.  Whit« 
tier  took  off  his  coat  and  gloves. 

"  She  is,  papa,  she  really  is.  And  she*s  built  a 
house  for  him  to  live  in.  That  very  house  you  were 
telling  us  about!" 

**I  shall  not  believe  it  till  I  see  the  man,  and 
hear  liim  own  it,"  he  replied. 

When  Helen  returned  to  the  parlor,  she  found 
Miss  Prigott's  ecstacies  subsiding  sufficiently  to 
enable  her  to  go  on  with  a  description  of  her 
house,  quite  coherently.  In  addition  to  the  usual 
rooms,  there  was  to  be  a  library  well  filled  with 
books;  all  the  works  of  Baxter,  Owen,  Bunyan  and 
other  good  men  were  to  be  there,  and  a  host  of 
others,  besides. 

"The  happy  man  must  be  a  minister,"  said  Mrs. 
Whittier,  willing  to  indulge  Miss  Prigott  in  riding 
her  hobby  as  long  as  she  chose. 

"You  are  as  wide  of  the  mark  as  ever,"  waa 
the  answer.  *'My  dear  Lucy,  you  will  ruin  your 
eyes  over  that  fine  stitching.  If  I  had  used 
my  eyes  in  that  way  in  my  youth,  where  would 
they  be  in  my  age  ?  Besides,  I  want  you  to 
keep  your  eyes  in  good  order;  for  I  have  some 
furniture  yet  to  purchase,  on  which  I  want  youi 
judgment." 


268  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"But  I  know  nothing  whatever  about  furniture, 
ujaid  Lucy,  in  astonishment. 

*'  Then  it  is  time  you  should  learn,  my  love,"  said 
Miss  Piigott  sharply. 

"  She  has  made  a  whole  set  of  chairs  and  tables," 
said  Charles. 

*'Has  made  what,  did  you  say?  Chairs  and  ta- 
bles? Why,  my  dear  Lucy,  is  there  anything  you 
don't  do?     Did  you  not  find  it  very  hard  work?" 

Lucy  explained  that  the  articles  in  question  were 
made  of  paper,  and  required  little  skill;  and  she 
was  glad  to  hear  dinner  announced,  and  to  escape 
the  ejaculations  of  amazement  she  saw  shaping 
themselves  on  Miss  Prigotfs  lips,  by  a  precipitate 
retreat  to  the  dining-room.  She  found  it  so  irk- 
some to  have  every  little  thing  she  said  or  did, 
commented  on  and  praised;  it  made  her  feel  foolish 
and  ashamed.  Yet  she  might  have  been  proud,  ac- 
cording to  her  own  theory,  for  the  pleasures  she 
had  prepared  for  the  little  boys  at  home.  It  had 
cost  her  both  time  and  labor;  and  was  indeed  a 
work  of  love,  worthy  to  be  classed  with  the  "  cup 
of  cold  water." 

As  they  sat  at  the  dinner-table,  Mr.  Whittier  said 
to  Miss  Prigott,  "I  hope  you  have  lost  nothing  bv 
the  failure  of  that  foolish  Savings'  Bank?" 

"Not  a  penny!"  she  answered.  "But  many  a 
poor  old  woman  has." 


A    VISIT    FROM    MISS    PRIGOTT.  26i 

"I  had  a  trifle  there  myself,"  said  Mr.  Whittier 
'* Fortunately,  not  much.  It  was  my  boy's;  and 
I  would  gladly  have  lost  a  greater  sum  elsewhere. 

"Ah!  that  was  a  fine  boy!"  said  Miss  Prigott. 
"Haven't  1  heard  you  say  his  grandfather  wished 
to  educate  him?'* 

"Very  likely;  for  that  was  the  case.  I  intended 
the  sum  he  left  him  should  pass  to  your  little 
brother,  Lucy;  it  just  occurs  to  me  that  I  had  not 
transferred  it  to  him." 

The  presence  of  a  little  foot  upon  his  own,  under 
the  table,  recalled  Mr.  Whittier's  thoughts;  he 
looked  embarrassed,  and  began  to  say,  in  a  con- 
fused way,  that  of  course  it  made  no  difi'erence; 
there  was  more  money  in  the  world  than  that 
promised  Arthur ;  but  it  was  too  late.  Lucy's 
quick  comprehension  took  in  the  whole  matter  at 
a  glance.  Some  things  in  Arthur's  letters  had 
puzzled  her;  he  had  hinted  at  some  diflBculties  in 
the  way  of  his  education,  which  she  could  not  un- 
derstand: everything  was  plain  now;  her  uncle  had 
forgotten  to  send  her  grandfather  s  legacy  to  Arthur, 
and  now  it  was  all  gone !  While  she  had  been  per- 
fectly showered  with  luxuries,  and  was  so  happy  at 
school,  and  so  at  ease  about  Arthur,  he  had  been 
unable  to  pay  his  school-bills,  or  buy  necessary  books: 
what  a  year  of  mortifications  and  disappointments 
it  must  have  been  to  him  and  to  her  mother !     Her 


270  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

mind  was  able  to  seize  only  one  point  of  relief, 
there  was  the  watch  Miss  Prigott  had  given  herj 
with  that  she  could  supply  Arthur's  present  wants, 
and  have  something  left  for  the  future.  She  went 
to  her  room  the  moment  dinner  was  over,  and 
speedily  dressed  herself  for  going  out;  then,  taking 
the  watch  in  her  hand,  she  quietly  left  the  house, 
and  was  driving  down  Broadway  before  she  had 
collected  her  scattered  thoughts. 

"  1  am  almost  afraid ! "  she  said  to  herself.  "  I 
may  be  going  on  a  foolish,  or  even  wicked  errand. 
Oh,  may  God  direct  me,  and  keep  me  from  doing 
wrong ! " 

But  when  she  entered  the  brilliant  establishment 
where  the  watch  had  been  purchased,  her  courage 
failed.  She  lingered  near  the  door:  it  was  not  too 
late  to  return;  but  no — the  image  of  Arthur,  tall 
and  slender,  and  not  strong,  came  and  stood  by  her 
side  and  gave  her  courage;  she  advanced,  and  of- 
fered the  watch  for  sale.  Hardly  had  she  done  so, 
when  Dr.  Thornton  approached  her,  with  an  air  of 
surprise,  under  which  she  shrank. 

"May  I  ask  the  meaning  of  this?"  he  asked 
kindly,  and  in  a  low  voice. 

She  hesitated.  "Excuse  me,  I  should  not  have 
asked,"  he  said,  and  was  moving  away,  but  she  de- 
tained him. 

"It  is  nothing  wrong,  I  hope;  nothing  I  should 


A    VISIT    FROM    MISS    PRIGOTT.  271 

bo  ashamed  to  have  you  know;  but  I  could  not  ex 
plain  it  here.  Only,  pray  don't  think  ray  uncle 
does  not  provide  me  with  all  I  need.  I  do  not  want 
anything  for  myself;  it  is  for  some  one  else." 

He  stood  by  her  side  in  silence,  but  with  kindness 
Btill,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  precious  money  was 
in  her  hands.  Yes,  precious;  for  it  should  fly  as 
on  the  wings  of  the  wind  to  Arthur. 

"  If  my  uncle  hears  of  this,  it  should  be  from  me," 
she  said  to  Dr.  Thornton,  as  they  passed  into  the 
street;  "and  no  other  person  has  a  right  to  know 
it." 

He  smiled.  "I  think  you  may  trust  me,"  he 
said;  and  so  they  parted.  Lucy  soon  reached 
home.  It  was  getting  late,  and  as  she  entered 
the  house,  the  bell  was  ringing  for  tea.  She  has- 
tily laid  aside  her  shawl  and  bonnet,  and  joined  the 
family.  To  her  relief,  she  found  they  had  not 
missed  her,  or,  at  least,  had  fancied  her  in  her 
room.  But  after  Miss  Prigott  had  taken  her  de- 
parture, and  she  had  leisure  for  reflection,  she  be- 
gan to  feel  disturbed  by  a  new  question.  Ought 
she  not  to  go  frankly  to  her  uncle,  and  tell  him  what 
she  had  done?  But  should  she  do  that,  would  ho 
not  feel  that  she  recklessly  had  chosen  to  givy 
him  pain?  "There  is  a  right  and  a  wrong  t(t 
this  matter,"  she  thought.  "Oh,  if  I  only  knew 
what  I  ought  to  do,  I  think  I  would  do  it,  cost 


272  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

what  it  might!"  She  could  hardly  sleep  in  thig 
doubtful  state;  and  all  the  next  day  she  felt  per- 
plexed.  But  by  degrees  it  began  to  be  very  plain 
that  she  owed  it  to  her  uncle  to  confess  the  whole 
transaction. 

Her  mind  once  made  up,  she  lost  no  time  in  tak 
ing  him  aside,  and  laying  before  him  the  facts  of 
the  case: 

"Uncle,  I  have  done  something  that  I  am  not 
Bure  you  will  approve.     I  have  sold  my  watch." 

*To  whom?" 

"To  Mr.  Kent,  of  whom  it  was  bought;  and  for 
a  trifle  less  than  the  original  price." 

"It  is  just  what  I  expected  of  you,  Lucy,"  said 
he.  "And,  let  me  tell  you,  you  have  lost  nothing 
by  confessing  to  me  that  you  have  sold  it.  I  saw 
you  hurry  off,  after  dinner;  and  as  it  needed  no  ma- 
gician to  tell  where  you  had  gone,  I  followed  you." 

"  Are  you  displeased  with  me,  uncle  ?  Have  I 
done  wrong?" 

"  I  am  displeased  with  myself  for  giving  you  oc- 
casion to  sacrifice  your  watch,  my  dear.  I  will  not 
say  it  was  quite  right  for  you  to  run  off,  without 
consulting  any  of  us,  and  sell  Miss  Prigott's  gift. 
But  I  knew  how  you  felt  about  it,  and  ought  to 
have  given  you  my  advice  unasked." 

"Dear  uncle,  when  I  first  showed  it  to  you,  I 
wmm  \o  9sk  if  1  might  ^^chapgQ  it  fgr  ^  k§^ 


A    VISIT    FROM    MISS    PRIGOTT.  272 

expensive  one;  but  I  said  all  I  dared.  And  I  was 
writing  home  yesterday  morning;  and  that  made 
me  think,  as  it  always  does,  how  I  should  delight 
to  take  them  all  by  surprise,  by  sending  them 
something  not  any  heavier  than  pictures  and  pa- 
per-babies, but  worth  a  good  deal  more." 

Her  uncle  smiled,  and  asked,  "How  old  is  Ar- 
thur now?" 

"He  is  thirteen;  there  is  only  a  year  between 
him  and  John." 

*'Has  he  begun  to  fit  for  college?" 

"Yes,  sir;  he  recites  to  our  minister  a  part  of 
the  time,  but  he  goes  to  school  besides." 

"  Well,  I  think  I  shall  remember  my  promises  bet- 
ter in  future.  The  fact  is,  I  had  got  this  boy  so 
mixed  up  in  my  mind  with  my  own  little  Arthur, 
that  I  was  thinking  it  would  be  years  before  he'd 
need  that  money;  and  meanwhile  it  could  accu- 
mulate. And  now,  to  make  all  fair  and  square  be- 
tween us,  you  must  make  me  one  promise;  and  if 
you  make  and  keep  it,  I'll  overlook  your  hair-brained 
scamper  down  Broadway  this  afternoon." 

Lucy  smiled,  and  promised. 

"  Understand,  then,  that  when  I  get  ready — I  am 
not  now,  but  I  shall  be  some  time — I  am  to  make 
you  a  present  you'll  neither  refuse,  nor  give  way, 
nor  sell." 

^*I    thought    I    wouldn't    pr§pg    \xex    ^bout    that 


274  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

watch,"  he  said  afterwards,  to  Mrs.  Whittier;  "th« 
poor  child  behaved  very  well  about  it,  on  the  whole; 
and  I  like  her  all  the  better  that  she  is  not  yet 
quite  perfect.  Little  witch !  It  was  a  pretty  bold 
step  to  take.  But  the  watch  was  her  own;  she  had 
a  right  to  do  what  she  pleased  with  it.  And  ii  Miss 
Prigott  ever  finds  it  out,  I'll  lay  a  flattering  unction 
to  her  soul  that  will  make  it  young  again.  The  truth 
is,  it  was  a  very  unsuitable  present.  So  showy  and 
expensive  an  article,  to  a  young  girl  fresh  from  the 
country,  was  ridiculous." 

*'Do  you  think  Lucy  will  be  willing  to  spend 
the  summer  with  us?"  asked  Mrs.  Whittier. 

"I  don't  know.  Let  me  see;  it  is  a  year  and  a 
few  months  since  she  came.  No;  she  ought  to 
spend  the  summer  vacation  at  home.  She  will  not 
be  happy  without  seeing  them  all ;  nor  they  without 
seeing  her." 

**  If  she  goes  home,  I  fear  she'll  not  return." 

*'0h,  there's  no  danger  of  that.  Such  a  passion 
for  books  I  never  saw  before.  Mr.  Jackson  says  he 
never  had  such  a  pupil;  she  is  going  on  very  rap- 
idly." 

"  But  if  she  goes  home,  she  will  see  how  much 
she  is  wanted  there;  and  I  know  just  how  it  will  be. 
She'll  sit  down  and  sew  from  morning  till  night,  oi 
drudge  about  house ;  and  they'll  tell  her  every  little 
trouble    they've   had  during   her   absence;   and   the 


A    VISIT    FROM    MISS    PRIGOTT.  27t 

end  of  it  will  be,  she'll  return,  if  she  comes  at  all, 
entirely  unfit  for  school,  as  she  was  when  she  came 
here." 

*'I  wish  she  was  my  child!"  said  Mr.  Whittier. 

"  So  do  I !  It  does  seem  sad  to  think  of  such  a 
girl  as  she  is,  being  buried  in  the  country.' 

*'  She's  going  to  make  a  beautiful  woman." 

"  Better  than  that  I  A  good  and  an  accomplished 
one." 


CHAPTER  XX. 


EVERY  LIFE  HAS  ITS  ROMANCE 


UCY  folded  and  sealed  the  letter,  in  which 
the  fruits  of  her  watch  lay  snugly  folded, 
with  a  beating  heart.  She  longed  to  fly 
home,  and  be  herself  the  bearer  of  the 
relief  she  knew  the  unconscious  sheet  of  paper  could 
carry,  but  not  appreciate.  Helen  met  her — half 
running,  half  dancing — with  it  in  her  hand,  and 
was  not  much  surprised  to  feel  herself  caught  and 
kissed,  after  a  glance  at  the  radiant  face  that  fairly 
shone  with  happiness. 

"Always   smiling,"   said    she.     "I    do   think  you 
are  the  happiest  creature  I  ever  saw." 

Lucy  always  liked  to  be  called  a  happy  person; 
and  another  kiss  told  Helen  so. 

"It   is   time   for   school,"    said    Helen;    "are   you 
ready?** 

"Ju&l  let  me  give  this  letter  to  uncle,  first." 
"  He's  gone.     He  went  some  time  ago." 


EVERY    LIFE    HAS    ITS    ROMANCE.  27? 

"Oh  dear  I  Then  my  letter  won't  go  by  to-day's 
mail  I  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  had  mailed  it  on  Saturday 
night!" 

"Never  mind.  It  will  go  just  as  safely  to-morrow. 
Come;  it  is  high  time  for  school." 

Lucy  was  greatly  disappointed;  she  felt  like  cry- 
ing almost,  and  a  wild  fancy  shot  across  her  mind 
relative  to  setting  off  homeward  on  foot.  The  loving 
heart  could  certainly  reach  home  sooner  than  the 
mail;  if  alas!  it  need  not  travel  in  that  slow,  uncer- 
tain coach,  a  frail  body!  Horses  could  go  faster 
than  that;  and  so  could  steam. 

"Mamma  is  calhng  you,  Lucy,"  said  Helen. 

"  Your  uncle  did  not  forget  your  letter,  my  dear," 
said  Mrs.  Whittier.  *'  He  is  going  to  send  for  it  in 
a  few  hours;  and,  in  the  meantime,  I  am  to  write 
to  your  mother,  myself.  Shall  1  tell  you  what 
about?" 

"  We  shall  be  late  at  school,  mamma,"  said  Helen. 
"Lucy  can  hear  just  as  well  when  we  get  home. 
Can't  you,  Lucy?" 

"  If  you  please,  aunt,"  said  Lucy,  feeling  herself 
almost  carried  off  by  Helen,  who  besides  her  dread 
of  being  late,  had  a  strong  desire  that  her  mother's 
letter  should  go  before  its  subject  should  be  revealed. 

On  their  return,  the  letters  had  gone — but,  at  the 
dinner-table,  Lucy's  curiosity  was  satisfied  by  her 
aunt. 


278  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"We  have  been  thinking,  dear  Lucy,  that  you 
would  wish  to  spend  the  summer  vacation  at  home, 
and  it  is  very  natural  you  should.  But  your  uncle 
and  I  talked  it  over  last  night,  and  again  this 
morning;  and  we  have  decided  to  write  to  your 
mother,  and  ask  her  to  come  here  and  make  us  a 
visit,  and  then  to  allow  us  to  take  you  with  us,  as 
we  did  last  summer.  The  sea  air  is  so  good  for 
you;  and  you  have  been  studying  so  hard!" 

Lucy  reflected  a  little  before  she  replied.  She 
felt  that  it  would  do  her  mother  a  world  of  good 
for  once  to  leave  home  and  all  its  cares,  and  change 
scene  and  air;  but  would  she  consent  to  do  it?  If 
so,  her  own  duty  was  plain ;  otherwise,  it  did  seem 
very  hard  to  give  up  seeing  them  all  for  another 
year. 

"Dear  aunt,  how  very  kind  you  are!  you  think 
of  everything,"  she  said.  "I  wish  mother  could 
come  here;  I  am  sure  you  would  like  her.  And 
she  would  enjoy  being  here.  But  it  is  so  many, 
many  years  since  she  left  home,  e^en  for  one  day  1 
Not  since  1  can  remember." 

"You  are  so  aged,"  said  her  uncle. 

"T  was  afraid  to  let  you  hear  mamma's  plan," 
Baid  Helen.  "I  knew  you  wanted  to  see  Arthui 
and  Hatty,  and  all  of  them,  so  much." 

Lucy  made  no  answer.  She  had  formed  no  defi- 
nite  plan   about   going   home;   but   had  rather,   in 


EVERY    LIFE    HAS    ITS    ROMANCE.  27S 

her  own  mind,  taken  it  for  granted  she  wag 
to    go. 

"  Let  us  drop  the  subject  for  the  present,"  said 
her  aunt,  observing  her;  "there  are  still  two  months 
before  vacation,  and  it  is  not  necessary  to  decide 
on  anything  at  present." 

Lucy  found  the  subject  not  easily  dropped.  It 
clung  to  her  wherever  she  went,  and  however  she 
busied  herself,  especially  on  Saturdays  and  Sundays; 
those  days  in  which  home  sickness  weekly  revenges 
itself  for  the  partial  respite  it  has  given  during  the 
other  five.  She  was,  therefore,  less  sorry  to  find 
herself  dragged  by  Miss  Prigott  from  shop  to  shop, 
to  help  her  examine  carpets,  tables,  chairs,  and 
even  pictures;  for  thus  one  of  her  hard  days  was 
softened  every  week,  since  there  w^as  comfort  in 
giving  pleasure,  irksome  as  was  the  labor  involved 
in  it. 

"How  worn-out  you  look!"  cried  Helen,  as  one 
day  Lucy  returned  from  such  an  expedition.  '*  I 
wonder  how  you  can  let  yourself  be  served  so ! 
riiis  is  the  fourth  Saturday  you  have  been  undei 
lier  thumb." 

"She  has  been  very  kind  to  me,"  said  Lucy; 
"  and  I  am  glad  to  have  an  opportunity  of  gratify, 
ing  her.  You  know  aunt  advised  me  to  go.  But 
1  know  no  more  about  carpets  and  curtains  than  a 
kitten.     To-day,  though,  I've  seen  beautiful  things; 


280  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

pictures  and  writing-desks,  and  the  funniest  little 
nests  of  tables;  and  the  moment  I  said  I  liked  what 
I  saw,  Miss  Prigott  bought  it,  till  I  hardly  dared 
open  my  mouth.  One  room,  in  particular,  she  says, 
is  to  be  furnished  exactly  to  my  taste.  She  wants 
you  to  go  with  me  on  next  Saturday  to  see  the 
house." 

*'So  she's  really  going  to  let  us  see  it  at  last, 
is  she  ?  But  I  can't  go  on  Saturday,  for  Mary  Anna 
Milman  is  coming  to  spend  the  day:  and  she  al- 
ways comes  early." 

*'  Could  not  she  go  with  us  ?  I  dare  say  she 
would  like  to  go.  Miss  Prigott  is  to  call  for  us  in 
her  carriage.  I  forgot  to  tell  you,  she's  bought  a 
new  carriage  and  horses;  and  she  wants  your  fa- 
ther to  see  them." 

"Well;  when  I  get  married,  I  hope  I  shaVt  be 
left  to  build  a  house,  and  buy  horses  and  carriages 
for  my  husband." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  she's  going  to  be  married." 

"But,  of  course,  she  doesn't  expect  to  live  all 
alone  in  that  large  house.  1  mean  to  ask  her,  if  I 
go  on  Saturday,  and  make  her  tell  me.  Dear  me! 
who  would  want  to  live  with  her!     Should  jou?'' 

"I'll  tell  you  when  she  asks  me,"  said  Lucy, 
laughing. 

•*  It  is  almost  five  weeks  since  I  have  heard  from 
(lome/*  she  said,  after  a  pause. 


EVERY    LIFE    HAS    ITS    ROMANCE.  281 

"I  thought  you  received  letters  soon  after  yon 
and  mamma  wrote  last." 

"Yes,  I  did;  the  last  of  that  week.  It  is  four, 
then,  since  I  heard.  But  I  thought  mother  would 
write  as  soon  as  she  received  aunt*s  letter,  to  say 
nothing  of  mine.  I  begin  to  be  afraid  some  one  is 
sick." 

"  No  news  is  safe  news,"  said  Helen.  "  Of  course 
they  would  write  if  anything  was  the  matter.  But 
here  comes  papa,  with  his  hands  full  of  letters." 

"  Two  for  Lucy  I "  he  cried,  coming  cheerily  in, 
"and  one  for  Helen;  and  one  for  you,  my  dear," 
he  added,  as  Mrs.  Whittier  entered,  "which  I've 
taken  the  liberty  of  opening  and  reading." 

"From  your  sister,  I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Whit- 
tier; "and  as  you've  read  it,  you  may  tell  me 
what  its  contents  are,  for  dinner  is  ready." 

"The  contents  are  too  numerous  to  mention,"  he 
answered.  "  They  have  had  sickness,  or  she  would 
have  written  sooner." 

"One  of  my  letters  is  three  weeks  old,"  said 
Lucy.  "  It  was  written  the  very  day  they  received 
mine.  It  went  safely,"  she  added,  in  a  low  voice, 
to  her  uncle,  whose  face  asked  the  question. 

"Who  has  been  sick,  dear?"  asked  her  aunt. 

"Three  of  the  children  have  had  the  measles 
severely,  Arthur  says.  The  three  youngest  were  all 
sick  together.     Poor  mother  must  be  all  worn  out.* 


282  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"She  says  she  cannot  possibly  decide  at  present 
whether  she  can  come  to  see  us.  But  that  she  ia 
quite  willing  to  let  you  remain,  at  all  events." 

"  I  didn't  want  her  to  be  willing  !  "  thought  Lucy. 
But  when,  after  dinner,  she  had  time  to  read  Ar- 
thur's letter,  its  cheerful,  relieved  tone  revived  her 
spirits.  The  eagerness  with  which  he  thanked  her 
for  the  money  she  had  sent  home,  showed  her  how 
much  he  had  been  embarrassed  by  the  want  of  it. 
He  said,  too,  that  his  uncle  had  written  to  their 
father  about  John,  and  had  promised  to  find  some- 
thing for  him  to  do  in  the  fall,  which  would  be  more 
profitable  than  going  to  sea.  He  told  her,  too,  what 
progress  he  had  made  in  his  studies,  and  how  happy 
and  grateful  he  was.  *'  Nobody  in  the  world  has  so 
much  to  be  thankful  for ! "  he  said,  as  he  closed  his 
letter.  Lucy  thought  she  could  say  the  same.  And 
the  next  week  passed  away  speedily;  for  happiness 
makes  time  travel  fast,  as  everybody  knows.  On 
the  following  Saturday,  Miss  Prigott  made  her  ap- 
pearance, carriage  and  all;  and  Helen,  Lucy,  and 
Mary  Anna  were  driven  to  see  the  house.  They 
went  in  fine  spirits;  and  everything  in  the  house 
and  about  it  was  *'  splendid,"  or  *'  lovely,"  or  "  de- 
lightful." 

"Now,  you  shall  see  the  rooms  Lucy  furnished," 
Baid  Miss  Prigott,  throwing  open  the  doors  of  twc 
hitherto  closed  apartments. 


EVERY    LIFE    HAS    ITS    ROMANCE.  283 

One  of  these  was  a  sleeping-room,  simply  fur- 
nished, but  in  perfect  taste;  and  adjoining  it  waa 
another,  fitted  as  a  little  library.  Books  and  pic 
tures,  and  a  tempting  rosewood  desk,  made  this  room 
attractive. 

"Why,  here  is  the  Madonna  T  liked  so  much!" 
said  Helen.  "  I  saw  one  at  Mr.  Ripley's,  one  day 
last  fall.  And  oh,  what  a  delightful  desk!  Places 
for  everything!  Room  for  such  hosts  of  papers! 
And,  Mary  Anna,  do  look  at  these  prints!  But  sit 
in  this  chair  first.  Isn't  it  nice  I  Oh,  Miss  Prigott ! 
are  these  the  rooms  you  are  to  occupy  yourself?" 

"No,  my  dear;  they  would  not  suit  an  old  woman. 
They  are  for  a  young  lady." 

"  What  young  lady  did  you  say  ? "  asked  Helen, 
playfully. 

"  Oh,  that  is  a  secret.  I  have  not  told  hei 
name.  But  these  two  rooms  and  their  contents 
are  for  her.  She  is  fond  of  study,  and  I  thought 
it  would  be  pleasant  for  her  to  have  a  place 
where  she  could  always  be  quiet;  and  then  I 
decided  to  have  pretty  things  about  her,  to  make 
her  cheerful.  And  she  likes  pictures;  so  I  ordered 
some.  Outlandish  things  they  are;  women  hold- 
ing babies  on  their  laps,  and  all  that,  but  people 
nowadays  seem  to  fancy  them." 

"Why,  those  are  Madonnas,"  said  Helen.  "But 
do  look  at  Lucy!     There   she   sits,   as   comfortable 


284  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

as  you  please,  reading,  as  if  her  life  depended  on 
it.     Lucy!" 

Lucy  looked  up  from  her  book,  and  smiled. 

**  This  is  a  charming  room ! "  said  she. 

"I  hoped  you  would  like  it!"  said  Miss  Prigotl 
rubbing  her  hands.  "And  how  do  you  think  the 
carpet  looks,  now  it  is  down  ?  ' 

"Very  nicely,  indeed." 

"And  you  think  the  rooms  pleasant?  I  am 
very  glad,"  Miss  Prigott  said  again.  "And  now 
you  may  go.  By  next  Saturday  I  hope  to  be 
quite  settled  and  you  must  all  come  and  spend 
the  day.  Bring  your  work,  and  do  just  as  you 
would  at  home." 

As  they  entered  the  carriage,  Miss  Prigott  de- 
tained Lucy  a  moment,  to  give  her  a  slip  of  paper. 
"You'll  find  the  name  of  that  young  lady  whc 
is  to  be  my  daughter,  on  this  paper,"  said  she. 
"  Don't  let  those  girls  see  it  just  yet." 

They  drove  off,  and  Mary  Anna  and  Helen  could 
talk  of  nothing  but  those  mysterious  rooms. 

"She  is  going  to  marry  a  widower  with  a  litei 
ary  daughter,  I  am  almost  sure,"  said  Helen. 

"Mr.  Stanley  is  a  widower,  and  his  daughter  if 
a  regular  book-worm,"  said  Mary  Anna. 

"Oh,  but  she  is  almost  as  old  as  Miss  Prigott 
She  said  a  young  lady." 

Meanwhile    Lucy   peeped   privately  at   the   papei 


EVERY    LIFE    HAS    ITS    ROMANCE.  285 

in  her  hand,  and  read  there,  to  her  astonishment, 
the  words,  "Sweet  Lucy  Grant."  Her  hand  closed 
over  it.  She  felt,  for  the  moment,  as  if  Miss 
Prigott's  grasp  thus  clasped  and  crumpled  her. 

"Why,  Lucy,  are  you  faint?"  cried  Helen,  "you 
look  so  pale!" 

"No;  I  am  not  faint;  and  I  don t  feel  pale." 

"You  don't  now;  but  you  certainly  did  when  I 
spoke." 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  any  one  say  that  Miss  Prigott 
had  been  insane?"  asked  Mary  Anna. 

"No;  but  everybody  says  she  is  odd:  as  odd  as 
she  can  be.  She  is  certainly  to  be  pitied,  for  I'm 
sure  she  can't  help  it." 

*'My  mother  knows  all  about  her,"  continued 
Mary  Anna,  "and  I  will  tell  you  what  she  told 
me;  but  you  must  not  repeat  it.  Lucy,  was  not 
your  father's  name  Robert?" 

"Yes;  but  what  has  that  to  do  with  Miss  Prigott?' 

"A  great  deal;  as  you  will  see.  In  the  days  of 
her  youth,  she  knew  him  very  well;  and  as  she 
was  so  rich,  some  young  men  treated  her  with 
great  attention,  notwithstanding  she  was  not  very 
attractive  otherwise.  Your  father  was  studying 
theology  at  that  time,  and  sho  tcok  a  fanc}  to 
him,  and  began  to  send  him  presents  anonymously 
There  was  no  end  to  the  books  and  clothes  she 
gave   him.     At   first  he    would   not   use    them,    not 


286  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

knowing  whence  they  came;  but  some  of  hia 
friends  at  last  persuaded  him  that  this  was  wrong; 
BO  by  degrees  he  appeared  out  in  some  of  the  things, 
and  Miss  Frigott  was  in  ecstacies.  It  went  on  so 
for  a  year  or  two;  but  by  that  time  she  began  to 
get  tired  of  keeping  her  secret,  and  confided  it  to 
a  friend,  who  confided  it  to  somebody  else,  and 
soon  after  it  reached  your  father's  ears.  He  imme 
diately  went  to  Miss  Prigott  and  insisted  on 
knowing  whether  these  reports  were  true;  and  it 
was  said  she  offered  herself  to  him  on  the  spot. 
At  any  rate,  he  came  from  the  interview  looking 
as  pale  as  possible;  and  she  never  was  the  same 
from  that  day.  She  always  said  he  behaved  honor- 
ably through  the  whole  afi'air,  and  that  she  had 
no  one  but  herself  to  blairo 

"Soon  after,  she  had  a  fever,  and  kept  calling 
for  him  all  the  time.  She  was  an  orphan;  and 
your  father  felt  so  much  for  her,  and  there  was  so 
much  talk  about  the  affair,  that  his  health  really 
Buffered.  He  wanted  to  send  back  the  books  and 
other  things;  but  he  was  advised  not  to  do  it,  she 
was  in  such  a  sad,  enfeebled  state  of  mind." 

Lucy  remembered  that  her  mother  had  said  in 
one  of  her  letters,  "  We  wish  you  to  do  everything 
in  your  power  for  the  gratification  of  Miss  Prigott. 
We  have  special  reasons  for  this  wish:  do  not 
forget    it."      Mary   Anna's    story    threw    light    upon 


EVERY    LIFE    HAS    ITS    ROMANCE.  287 

many  points  in  Miss  Prigott's  character,  as  well 
as  on  this  remark ;  but  it  made  the  bit  of  paper  she 
held  in  her  hand  burn  like  fire  into  her  heart. 

•'I  shall  not  respect  poor  Miss  Prigott  any  the 
less  for  what  you  have  told  me,"  she  said.  "  But 
I  am  not  sure  I  ought  to  have  let  you  tell  it' 

"Almost  everybody  knows  she  has  had  a  'disaj> 
pointraent,*"  said  Helen.  "But  I  think  it's  quite  in- 
teresting to  know  all  about  it." 

"Don't  you  wish  your  father  had  married  her?" 
asked  Mary  Anna.  "  You  would  have  been  as  rich 
as  Jews  by  this  time." 

Helen  laughed;  but  Lucy  felt  pained.  It  seemed 
to  her  a  most  amiable  weakness  in  Miss  Prigott  to 
fall  in  love  with  her  father.  She  was  glad  when 
they  reached  home,  when  she  could  refleo.t  on  all 
the  incidents  of  the  morning;  and  as  soon  as  an 
opportunity  offered,  she  went  to  her  aunt. 

"The  girls  have  been  giving  me  an  account  of 
their     morning    adventures,"    said    Mrs.    Whittier 
"  why  did  not  you  come  with  them  ?  " 

"I  wanted  to  see  you  alone,  aunt.  Did  they  tell 
you  about  those  rooms  she  has  fitted  up  so  nicely  ? ' 

"  Yes ;  and  that  they  are  for  some  unknown  young 
lady." 

"Just  as  we  were  coming  away,  she  put  this 
paper  into  my  hands,  saying  I  should  find  the  name 
of  the  young  lady  upon  it." 


288  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

Her  aunt  took  the  paper,  and  laughed  heartily 
as  she  read  the  words,  "Sweet  Lucy  Grant." 

•'What  nonsense!"  said  she.  "It  is  not  possible 
fihe  thinks  you  are  going  there  to  live  with  her!  1 
never  heard  of  such  a  thing  1  *' 

"  But  she  has  furnished  those  rooms  exactly  to  my 
taste ;  everything  there  I  had  selected,  not  dreaming 
what  was  coming;  and  she  seems  to  be  so  sure  I  am 
coming.  Oh,  aunt !  it  makes  me  wish  I  had  never 
left  home  I " 

*'  Why,  how  flushed  and  excited  you  are,  my  dear 
child !  Do  you  suppose  we  would  allow  you  to  go 
and  bury  yourself  alive  in  a  tomb  because  somebody 
had  been  silly  enough  to  build  one  for  the  purpose  ? 
And  I  do  not  really  believe  Miss  Prigott  expects 
you  to  do  it.  She  only  wanted  to  see  what  you 
would  say." 

Lucy  half  believed  her  aunt  for  the  time,  and 
went  away  relieved.  But  in  the  evening  there 
came  a  long  letter  from  Miss  Prigott,  in  which,  in 
the  most  pathetic  manner,  she  described  her  long, 
lonely  life,  and  told  Lucy  how  happy  she  could  now 
make  its  closing  years;  and  conjured  her  to  come 
and  begin  this  work  of  mercy. 

Poor  Lucy  cried  herself  sick  over  it.  A  romantic 
notion  that  she  ought  to  sacrifice  herself  to  Miss 
Prigott,  who  had  suffered  so  much,  whose  life  had 
been  so  cheerless  and  lonely,  well-nigh  carried  off 


EVERY    LIFE    HAS    ITS    ROMANCE.  289 

lier  judgment  by  storm.  It  was  fortunate  for  her 
that  in  this  emergency  she  was  not  left  to  act  for 
herself. 

Her  uncle  went  to  Miss  Prigott  at  once,  and  set- 
tled the  question;  proposing,  however,  that  Lucy 
should  spend  a  few  weeks  in  the  pet  rooms  pre- 
pared for  her,  call  them  hers,  and  from  time  t. 
time,  as  years  passed,  use  them  as  such.  With 
many  tears.  Miss  Prigott  yielded;  declaring  that 
from  the  outset  she  had  wished,  rather  than  ex- 
pected, to  secure  Lucy  for  herself.  Lucy  went  to 
her  early  on  the  following  Monday,  and  -devoted 
every  leisure  moment  to  her  comfort  and  pleasure. 
They  were  some  of  the  happiest  weeks  she  had 
ever  spent. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


A  NOT  AGREEABLE  SURPRISE, 


FEW  days  after  her  return  to  her  uncle's, 
Lucy  received  letters  from  home.  Sho 
went  to  her  own  room  to  read  them; 
Helen  saw  her  kissing  them  all  the  way 
upstairs.  She  walked  thoughtfully  herself  to  her 
mother's  room,  where  she  found  her  busy  with 
Charles,  who  was  trying  to  impress  upon  her  mind 
the  expediency*  of  the  purchase  of  a  certain  horse 
for  his  special  benefit. 

"  Lucy  has  letters  from  home,  mamma,"  said  Helen 
"Is  that  the  reason  you  look  so  forlorn?"  asked 
■Charles. 

"  I  did  not  know  I  looked  forlorn.  I  was  think- 
ing,  however,  that  it  is  not  likely  Lucy  will  be  con- 
tented to  spend  the  summer  with  us.  I  long  to 
know  what  her  mother  will  say  about  it." 

"lam  afraid  we  are  all  getting  selfish  in  regard 
to  Lucy,"  said  Mrs.  Whittier 


A    NOT    AGREEABLE    SURPRISE.  291 

*Do  you  think  they  miss  her  at  home?" 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course  they  do.  But  as  to  the 
mere  work,  there's  Rebecca,  you  know,  who  ia 
older  than  Lucy.  And  then,  where  there  are  so 
many  children,  they  help  each  other." 

"  But  they  can  hardly  miss  her  as  we  shall  when 
she  leaves  us.  I  do  love  her  so  dearly !  And  it 
eeems  exactly  as  if  I  had  always  known  her;  if  she 
were  my  own  sister,  I  could  not  love  her  better. 
Oh,  how  dreadful  it  will  be  when  she  leaves  us' 
I  don't  believe  they  miss  her ! "  said  Helen. 

"  Oh  yes,  they  do  !  "  cried  Charles.  "  I  have  been 
there,  and  know  all  about  it.  It  was  nothing  but 
Lucy,  Lucy,  from  morning  till  night.  Lucy  must 
dress  the  baby,  and  Lucy  must  comb  and  brush  all 
the  heads — all  the  ten  heads !  and  Lucy  must  see 
that  the  pot  boiled,  and  Lucy  must  fit  all  the  work 
for  the  other  girls;  and,  in  fact,  Lucy  was  every- 
where, and  doing  everything  at  once.  I  declare, 
it  tires  me  to  think  of  it !  Rebecca  was  so  slow 
and  so  dull  1  and  Hatty !  that  Hatty  was  such  a 
witch !  Romping  round,  and  making  blunders,  and 
looking  at  herself  in  the  glass  1 " 

"Oh,  Charles!" 

"It  is  true,  every  word;  and  you  may  ask  fathef 
if  it  is  not."     Helen  sighed. 

"I  believe  it  will  break  my  heart  if  she  leaves 
us,"  said  she. 


•2i)2  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"Break  your   heart!      Oh,    Helen!   what   a   face 
I   wish  I  could  catch  that  expression,  frame  it,  and 
hang  it  upon  the  wall,"  cried  Charles. 

"What  expression?"  asked  Helen. 

"  Why,  the  expression  of  your  face !  Look  hero  ^ 
This  is  the  way  you  looked.  Such  a  countenance' 
Now,  for  my  part,  I  don't  mean  to  let  Lucy  go 
home  at  all.  There  are  ten  left,  and  they  don't 
need  her." 

"  Mamma !  I  do  wish  Lucy  would  never  go 
home ! "  said  Helen.  "  I  do  want  a  sister  so  very 
much!  and  she  is  so  happy  here;  and  you  and 
papa  are  so  fond  of  her ! " 

Her  mother  smiled,  and  made  a  faint  effort  to  be 
prudent,  and  not  to  reveal  the  secret  plans  of  which 
Lucy  had  been  so  long  the  object.  But  it  was  of 
DO  use;  almost  before  she  knew  it,  she  had  said: 

"Your  father  is  very  anxious  to  keep  her  with 
us,  and  we  have  written  to  your  uncle  about  it; 
but  I  was  not  to  tell  you  that.'* 

Helen's  lively  imagination  caught  her  up,  and 
ran  away  with  her,  as  these  words  fell  from  her 
mother's  lips.  In  a  twinkling  of  an  eye  she  flew 
from  the  council  of  war  held  between  her  own  an(i 
Lucy's  parents,  onward  to  that  time  when,  young 
women  grown,  she  and  her  beloved  adopted  sis- 
ter should  go  hand-in-hand  as  ministering  spirits  to 
Uie    needy,    the    neglected,    and    the    heavj^-laden 


A    NOT    AGREEABLE    SURPRISE.  293 

to  the  end  of  their  days.  She  was  aroused  from 
her  reverie  by  Lucy's  voice. 

"Why,  Lucy  I  you  have  been  crying,"  she  ex- 
claimed. 

"  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself  for  that,"  re- 
plied Lucy,  trying  to  smile  away  her  tears.  "But 
f  was  taken  by  surprise.  Rebecca  is  going  to  ba 
married." 

^'BebeccaJ"  repeated  every  one,  in  surprise  and 
dismay. 

"And  must  you  go  to  the  wedding?"  asked  Helen. 

"  Of  course  she  will,"  said  Charles,  observing  that 
Lucy  seemed  at  a  loss  for  an  answer.  "They  can't 
get  ready  for  such  a  great  occasion  without  her." 

"But  will  you  be  gone  long,  dear  Lucy?"  asked 
Helen,  who  dreaded  even  a  short  separation  from 
faer  cousin. 

Lucy  looked  down,  and  hesitated. 

"  If  Rebecca  leaves  home,  I  shall  be  needed  there," 
she  said. 

"  You  don't  mean,"  cried  Charles,  "  that  you  are 
going  to  take  French  leave  of  us?  Just  as  we  had 
all  planned  everything  so  nicely,  and  were  to  have 
you  for  our  own  sister !  It  is  outrageous !  Who 
under  the  sun  wants  to  marry  Rebecca?  Why,  I 
thought  she  was  cut  out  for  a  nice  little  old  maiJ, 
who  would  always  stay  at  home,  and  take  care 
•of  the  rest." 


294  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

**0h,  Charles!"  whispered  Helen,  "you  don't  think 
what  you  are  saying."  And  she  drew  Lucy  away, 
in  terror  lest  he  should  say  something  more. 

"It  is  too  bad!"  cried  Charles,  the  moment  they 
were  out  of  hearing.  "  Eebecca  was  meant  for  an 
old  maid.  She  is  ugly  and  dowdy  and  fussy,  and 
now  she  is  going  to  be  married." 

He  looked  around  for  his  mother  s  sympathy,  but 
she  had  vanished. 

"  Ah !  I  have  been  talking  to  the  air,  I  declare ! 
Well,  it's  all  one!  I've  relieved  my  mind,  at  all 
events.  And  1  know  what  I  will  do.  I  will  write 
to  Kebecca,  and  tell  her  she  has  mistaken  her  voca- 
tion; that  she  is  ugly — however,  that  would  not 
do.  Nothing  provokes  a  girl  like  telling  her  she 
is  ugly.  Indeed,  nobody  nowadays  is  more  than 
plain.  Well!  perhaps  father  could  do  something 
about  it.  I'll  just  go  and  hunt  him  up,  and  see 
what  he'll  say." 

While  Charles  thus  consoled  himself,  Helen  and 
Lucy  read  together  the  letter  which  had  conveyed 
such  unexpected  tidings. 

"  Well ! "  said  Lucy  at  last,  "  I  have  had  a  whole 
year  at  school  with  you!  A  whole  happy  year. 
And  now  I  will  go  and  take  Kebecca's  place  in 
the  family,  and  teach  the  children,  and  try  to  make 
things  pleasant  for  mother.  And,  Helen,  we  will 
write  to  each  other  very  often." 


A    NOT    AGREEABLE    SURPRISE.  295 

Helen  sat  in  gloomy  silence,  and  made  no 
reply. 

"Aud  we  will  study  together,"  continued  Lucy. 
"I  will  study  just  what  you  do,  and  that  will  be 
80  pleasant!  Almost  as  pleasant  as  if  we  were 
near  each  other." 

Helen  would  not  be  comforted!  She  felt  as  if  a 
great  stone  lay  against  her  heart. 

''We  will  read  the  same  books,  too,"  said  Lucy. 
"And  one  of  these  days,  when  I  get  old,  and  stiff, 
and  good  for  nothing,  I'll  come  back  to  live  with 
you." 

"  You  won't  have  time  to  read,  and  you'll  lose  ali 
you  have  learned.  Oh,  Lucy !  I  haven't  any  sister, 
and  I  thought  I  was  to  have  you ! " 

"  I  ought  to  tell  you  then,  dear  Helen,  that  1 
could  not  have  been  so.  I  hoped  to  be  able  to  go 
somewhere  and  teach,  and  so  help  educate  my 
brothers.  I  am  almost  sure  they  won't  be  farmers. 
It  is  too  hard  work,  unless  there  is  a  fortune  to  start 
with.  A  wearing,  harassing,  toilsome  life!  I  felt 
as  if  I  could  not  bear  to  see  my  brothers  follow  in 
poor  father's  footsteps." 

"But  if  you  taught  school,  you  could  not  earn- 
much." 

"1  thought  I  could  help  them  along,  one  at  a 
time.  But  it  was  not  so  to  be:  I  had  jianned 
wrong." 


29(}  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

''  Rebecca  is  very  young,  to  go  and  get  married, 
said  Helen,  dolefully. 

'*She  won't  be  married  until  October.  Then  she 
will  be  nearly  twenty.  She  does  not  seem  so  old 
as  that,  because  she  has  been  sick  a  good  deal.  But 
I  always  thought  John  Wright  would  be  carrying 
her  off  as  soon  as  he  could.  Now,  I  shall  be  the 
old  maid  of  the  family,  and  you'll  see  what  a  nice, 
plump  Httle  one  I'll  be!" 

Notwithstanding  the  playful  tone  in  which  Lucy 
spoke,  Helen  observed  that  her  voice  trembled. 
Looking  up  hastily,  she  perceived  that  the  hopeful, 
cheerful  manner  was  only  assumed,  and  that  she 
was  in  real  distress. 

Instantly  forgetting  her  own  grief,  which  now 
struck  her  as  truly  selfish,  Helen  strove  by  the  ten- 
derest  expressions  of  sympathy  to  comfort  and  cheer 
Lucy. 

"  I  will  come  and  make  you  a  long  visit,  whenever 
mamma  will  allow,"  said  she.  '*Then  I  can  take  to 
you  all  the  new  books,  and  we  will  read  them  together. 
And  who  knows  but  all  will  come  right  again  ! " 

"All  is  right,  now,"  said  Lucy,  shaking  off  hei 
depressions,  and  smiling  once  more  like  herself 
*'No  one  in  this  world  can  know  what  a  disappoint^ 
ment  this  is  to.  me,  but  I  am  sure  it  is  right,  and 
ior  the  best!" 

Her  aunt  came  in  and  kissed  her  tenderly. 


A    NOT    AGREEABLE    SURPRISE.  297 

*'  Oh,  mamma !  you  have  been  crying,  too ! "  cried 
Helea.  "I  could  not  imagine  what  made  you  run 
away  and  leave  us  so  suddenly." 

"  You  must  not  decide  to  leave  us,  until  you  have 
talked  with  your  uncle,  my  dear  Lucy,"  said  her 
aunt.  *'I  assure  you  that  to  lose  you  now  will  be 
the  sorest  trial  we  ever  met  with." 

"What  have  I  done,  that  they  love  me  so?*' 
thought  Lucy.  She  felt  grateful  and  humble,  and 
that  her  lot  was  far  from  being  one  of  unmixed  trial 
and  sorrow. 

"  Oh,  here  is  papa  I "  cried  Helen,  "  let  us  see  what 
he  says  1 " 

"  He  says  it  won't  do ! "  shouted  Charles  from  the 
foot  of  the  stairs. 

"  Why,  Lucy  1 "  said  her  uncle,  "  what  is  all  this  ? 
Rebecca  going  to  be  married;  you  going  to  leave 
us?  What  have  the  two  things  to  do  with  each 
other?  You  know  you  were  to  stay  with  us  two 
years,  at  least;  and  you  have  been  here  little  more 
than  one.  But  set  your  hearts  at  rest,  all  of  you; 
I  shall  write  to  Robert,  and  you  will  find  he  has  no 
thought  of  taking  Lucy  home." 

'*  But,  uncle,"  said  Lucy,  "  when  Rebecca  is  gone, 
I  shall  be  needed  at  home.  Mother's  health  has 
been  feeble  for  many  years,  and  I  know  she  has  had 
a  great  deal  of  care  thrown  upon  her  by  my  absence 
Hatty  is  so  young — " 


298  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"  Is  such  a  witch,  you  mean,"  interrupted  Charles 

"Hatty  is  so  young,  and  so  full  of  spirits,  and 
hates  so  to  take  care  of  children." 

**Well,  then,  let  the  next  one  do  that,"  said  hei 
uncle. 

"Why,  he  is  a  boy!"  said  Lucy. 

"  Well,  the  next,  then,"  said  he. 

"  Oh,  he  is  a  boy,  too !  They  are  oU  boys  aftei 
Hatty.     And  real  boys,  too,"  she  added,  laughing. 

"I  give  you  up,  then,  Lucy,"  said  he  sadly. 
"  May  God  go  with  and  bless  you ! " 

"  W^hy,  father !  did  not  you  see  them  all  when 
you  were  there  ?  "  asked  Helen. 

**Yes,  I  suppose  I  did;  but  I  did  not  particu- 
larly notice  whether  they  were  boys  or  girls — why 
should  I  ?  But  now,  it  seems,  it  is  quite  an  impor- 
tant question." 

"  Mamma ! "  cried  Helen,  suddenly  growing  cheer- 
ful again,  "Lucy's  mother  will  not  let  her  stay  at 
home!  She  will  certainly  send  her  back  to  us 
again.     Mothers  are  never  selfish,  you  know!" 

With  this  consolatory  thought,  Helen  sustained 
herself  She  could  not  see  those  seven  boys,  of 
whom,  like  assorted  needles,  there  were  one  or  two 
of  every  size,  from  "  ones,"  upward.  She  could  not 
see  the  fourteen  stockings,  that  every  week  a  mother 
or  a  sister  must  mend;  nor  the  jackets  out  at  the 
elbow;    nor   the   trowsers    out    at    the    knees.     She 


A    NOT    AGREEABLE    SURPRISE.  299 

could  not  conceive  how  often  some  of  tbose  little 
faces  wanted  washing;  how  much  time  it  required 
every  night  to  undress  and  get  safely  to  bed,  every 
morning  to  dress  and  get  safely  on  their  feet,  these 
miniature  men,  who  already  by  their  helplessness 
and  awkwardness  proclaimed  that  they  were  not 
born  to  perform  those  works  of  in-door  life  which 
fall  properly  upon  the  sisters,  mothers,  and  wives, 
for  whom  they  are  designed.  But  Lucy  saw  all 
these  things,  and  more;  and  her  heart  turned  itself 
homeward,  resolutely  and  cheerfully. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

SHOWS  TEE  CLOUDS  DISPERSING. 

T  was  decided,  after  not  a  little  discussion, 
that  Lucy  should  not  return  home  'until 
the  week  of  Rebecca's  marriage.  Lucy 
had  no  share  in  this  plan;  she  would 
gladly  have  returned  home  at  once,  to  help  Rebecca 
as  well  as  to  see  her  before  her  departure.  But  her 
uncle  would  not  listen  to  a  word  on  the  subject. 
The  more  sure  he  felt  that,  once  home,  she  would 
not  return,  the  more  he  was  resolved  to  give  her 
every  possible  pleasure  before  parting  with  her. 
Hasty  preparations  were  therefore  made  for  a  jour- 
ney, which  was  to  commence  in  August,  as  soou 
as  school  closed.  At  Lucy's  suggestion.  Miss  Prig- 
ott  was  invited  to  make  one  of  the  party;  and 
Mrs.  Lee,  who  was  welcome  everywhere,  no  sooner 
heard  what  was  going  on,  than  she  invited  herself 
Everybody  was  busy;  Mrs.  Whittier  planning  for 
all  the  rest;  Helen  and  Lucy  with  the  last  pressing 


SHOWS    THE    CLOUDS    DISPERSING.  301 

labors  of  school;  Miss  Prigott  flying  round  and  get- 
ting into  the  way  of  each  and  all;  and  Mrs.  Lea 
in  conferences  with  Dr.  Thornton,  letter -writing 
abroad,  and  all  manner  of  final  arrangements. 

When  school  closed,  and  Lucy  went  to  take  leave 
of  Mr.  Jackson,  he  expressed  both  astonishment 
and  displeasure  at  the  idea  of  her  not  returning; 
would  not  bid  her  good-bye;  said  he  should  write 
to  her  father  and  visit  her  uncle,  and  all  sorts  of 
extravagant  things  in  her  praise,  none  of  which 
had  much  efiect  upon  her,  except  to  excite  her 
gratitude. 

"And  now.  Miss  Lucy,"  said  her  uncle,  as  she 
came  to  the  table,  quite  worn  and  tired  after  the 
leave-takings  at  school,  "suppose  you  take  the 
trouble  to  inquire  where  we  are  all  going.** 

"  I  did  not  know  that  I  had  not  asked,  uncle," 
she  answered.  "I  have  had  so  much  to  think  of 
lately,  that  I  have  not  had  room  in  my  head  for 
journeys." 

"And  I  suppose  you  care  not  a  whit  to  know 
which  way  we  are  to  go;  north,  east,  south,  or 
west?" 

"Don't  tease  her,  papa;  please  don't!"  pleaded 
Helen.     "Let   me   tell   her;   mayn't   I?     Oh,    Lucy, 

you'll   be   so   pleased!     We're   going   to   H ,    to 

spend  all  the  rest  of  the  summer,  and  nearly  the 
whole    month    of   October.     Only    five    miles    from 


302  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

where  you  live!  All  of  us,  and  Miss  Prigott,  and 
Mrs.  Lee,  and  all  her  children !  Papa  has  engaged 
rooms  for  us,  or  rather  he  wrote  to  your  father  to 
do  so,  and  he  has.     Isn't  it  nice?" 

"Now  they'll  see  my  motJier/^*  was  Lucy's  first 
thought;  "and  Arthur!  and  all  of  them!" 

"I  knew  you  would  be  delighted!"  continued 
Helen.  "  Papa  would  not  let  me  tell  you  a  moment 
sooner.  And  we  can  all  go  to  Rebecca's  wedding! 
And  mamma  has  such  hosts  of  things  for  her ! " 

Helen  ran  on,  as  fast  as  a  nimble  tongue  could 
carry  her,  unfolding  all  the  plans,  and  Lucy  listened 
and  applauded,  while  her  uncle  and  aunt  sat  still 
and  enjoyed  her  pleasure. 

"Papa  is  to  send  the  carriage,  so  we  shall  be 
able  to  come  to  see  you  very  often,  and  have  you 

to  see   us.     And  if  he   and   mamma   find  H a 

pleasant  place,  perhaps  they'll  go  there  every 
summer! " 

These  anticipations  of  pleasure  were  not,  how. 
ever,  to  be  realized.  Mrs.  Whittier  was  suddenly 
attacked  with  illness,  which  though  not  severe, 
rendered  travelling  unsafe;  Helen  would  not  be 
persuaded  to  leave  her;  and  none  of  the  party  wished 
to  do  so.  At  almost  the  last  moment  it  was  ar- 
ranged  that  Lucy  should  go  home  alone,  and  that 

the  visit  to   H should  be  postponed  to  anolhei 

season.     Helen's  anxiety  about  her  motlier  sin^aiued 


SHOWS    THE    CLOUDS    DISPERSING.  303 

ner  througli  tlie  leave-taking;  but  when  Lucy  bade 
farewell  to  her  uncle,  aunt,  and  cousins,  Mrs.  Lee  and 
Miss  Prigott,  it  seemed  to  them  all,  as  they  parted, 
that  the  ties  of  many  years  were  broken.  Not  often 
is  it  thus  in  this  world;  yet  there  are  cases  where 
the  affections  seize  upon  a  beloved  object,  and 
straightway  it  begins  to  seem  that  there  never 
could  have  been  a  time  when  it  was  less  dear,  or 
the  heart  free  from  a  sense  of  emptiness  without 
it.  Mrs.  Whittier's  illness  proved  somewhat  ob- 
stinate, and  all  thought  of  going  to  the  country 
this  year  was  given  up,  unless  a  short  trip  to  a 
quiet  spot  near  home  should  be  found  desirable. 
She  was  confined  to  the  sofa,  and  needed  cheerful 
society,  such  as  Helen  usually  afforded.  But  she 
did  not  afford  it  now.  She  felt  as  if  one  half  her- 
self at  least  had  gone  with  Lucy,  and  her  hopeful 
anticipations  of  a  return  in  the  fall  began  to  cloud 
over.  Her  mother  too  gave  her  little  encourage- 
ment. Helen  saw  that,  however  she  desired  Lucy's 
return,  she  did  not  really  expect  it.  Indeed,  there 
was  but  one  point  on  which  hope  rested;  it  was 
that  already  seized  by  Helen's  imagination:  "Mo- 
thers are  never  selfish." 

However  true  this  may  be,  there  is  a  limit  to  the 
strength  of  the  most  devoted  mother;  and  the  very 
qualities  that  rendered  Lucy  attractive  abroad, 
made  her  doubly  precious  at  home. 


304  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

But  this  was  Helen's  first  real  trial.  She  had  nevei 
known  anything  like  it  in  her  life.  She  went  mop- 
ing about,  looking  very  dreary  and  desolate,  and 
refusing  to  be  comforted.  Her  mother  therefore 
thought  best  to  revive  the  favorite  project  so  long 
deferred:  'the  fitting  out  a  great  box  of  garments 
for  the  relief  and  pleasure  of  Lucy's  mother.  It 
had  the  desired  efiect;  it  made  Helen  forget  herself, 
and  leave  off  sighing  and  weeping,  while  it  opened 
a  channel  into  which  her  busy,  loving  heart  could 
run  and  find  peace.  There  was  no  end  to  the 
pleasure  they  all  gained  from  this  affair;  even 
Charles  enjoyed  their  consultations,  and  sat  often 
with  them  in  their  councils.  He  was  of  use  too, 
in  selecting  articles  that  would  be  of  service  to 
his  cousins;  for  he  had  been  among  them,  and 
knew  something  of  their  real  wants.  How  vulgar 
to  the  uninitiated  ear  would  a  list  of  the  contents 
of  this  box  appear!  How  suggestive,  to  the  wife 
and  children  of  the  Home  Missionary,  of  privations 
long  endured  and  patiently  submitted  to ! 

"  You  must  contrive  room  for  me  to  tuck  in  some- 
thing," said  Mr.  Whittier,  just  as  the  last  stout 
jacket  had  been  coaxed  into  an  incredibly  small 
space. 

'*0h,  papa!  you  are  too  late!"  cried  Helen,  tri« 
umphantly.  "You  can't  even  crowd  in  your  love! 
Mamma  and  I  have  filled  up  every  spare  nook  and 


SHOWS    THE    CLOUDS    DISPERSING.  305 

corner  with  ours.  Oh,  I  do  wish  you  had  come  sooner 
to  see  all  those  nice  jackets,  from  five  years  old 
upward !  And  those  dear  little  plaid  frocks  for  tha 
baby!  And  those  comical  little  shirts;  all  sizes:  I 
never  saw  anything  so  funny!  Mamma  and  I 
laughed  till  we  cried,  thinking  how  the  children 
would  look,  hopping  round  trying  on  the  things 
and  dear  Lucy  helping  them  all,  and  never  dream 
ing  what  there  is  for  her,  away  down  at  the  bottom 
of  the  box!" 

"And  what,  pray,  is  that?"  he  asked,  drawing 
Helen  down  to  a  seat  upon  his  knee. 

"Why,  one  of  those  little  clocks,  papa,  that  will 
be  almost  as  useful  as  a  watch;  I  don't  know  what 
you  call  it  exactly,  but  it  does  not  go  by  weights 
at  all,  and  you  can  carry  it  in  your  travelling-bag, 
if  necessary.  Mamma  thought  of  this,  and  we  all 
think  she  will  like  it  very  much,  as  well  as  many 
other  little  things  we  have  gathered  among  us." 

"And  so  you  won't  let  me  send  my  budget  in 
your  box  ?  "  said  her  father. 

"Indeed,  papa,  there  is  not  room  for  anything 
more.     But,  let  me  see;  if  it  is  very  small — *' 

Her  father  held  between  his  finger  and  thumb  a 
bit  of  paper,  old  and  yellow,  and  uninviting  to 
Helen's  fancy 

"  Oh,  is  that  all  ?  '*  said  she.  "  Dear  me  '  I  thoughl 
you  had  been  getting  some  splendid  present !  " 


306  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"Lucy  does  not  want  splendid  things,  my  dear, 
and  I  assure  you  this  little  bit  of  paper  is  of  some 
value." 

Her  mother  came  and  looked  over  his  shoulder 
and  smiled. 

"  I  knew  you  could  not  help  doing  that,"  said  she 
"I  am  very  glad!" 

Helen  looked  puzzled. 

*'  It  is  an  old  note  of  your  uncle's,  my  dear,"  ex- 
plained her  father,  "and  I  intend  to  make  Lucy  a 
present  of  it." 

"But  what  will  she  do  with  it,  papa?" 

"Throw  it  into  the  fire,  I  hope,"  he  answered, 
enjoying  Helen's  bewildered  air. 

"  My  dear,"  said  her  mother,  "  that  little  bit  of 
paper  kept  your  father  and  uncle  apart  many  years, 
the  trouble  began  when  they  were  young  men,  and 
before  your  father  was  a  Christian.  Uncle  Kobert 
was  unfortunate;  and  never  could  pay  what  he 
owed  us;  and  this  debt  has  harassed  him  for  years. 
Now  you  see,  when  this  note  is  destroyed,  there  will 
be  no  debt;  and  poor  Lucy,  who  has  borne  this 
yoke  in  her  youth,  will  be  forever  at  ease.  It  is 
but  a  trifle  to  your  father;  he  can  now  afford  to  do 
it ;  and  as  for  sending  it  in  the  box — that  is  just  one 
of  his  jokes." 

Helen  threw  her  arms  around  her  father's  neck, 
and  told  him  he  was  the  very  best  man  in  the  world. 


SHOWS    THE    CLOUDS    DISPERSING.  30? 

and,  whether  he  believed   himself  such  or  not,  he 
loved  dearly  to  hear  his  darling  child  say  so. 

Not  many  days  after  the  departure  of  the  box 
Mary  Anna  Milman  came  to  visit  Helen. 

"Now,  do  tell  me,"  said  she,  as  soon  as  she  had 
seated  herself,  "  about  poor  Lucy.  I  have  so  longed 
to  hear  all  about  it!" 

"  About  what  ?  "  asked  Helen:  '* her  going  home ? ' 

"Yes.  What  could  have  induced  her  to  leave 
you,  and  school,  and  all  her  comforts  and  pleasures 
here,  to  go  home  and  nurse  babies?  It  really  is 
ridiculous!     They  all  say  sol" 

"  Was  it  ridiculous  to  love  her  mother  ? "  asked 
Helen. 

"Oh!  of  course  not!  But  just  as  if  some  one 
could  not  have  been  got — some  low  person,  good  foi 
nothing  else — to  go  and  take  care  of  those  children  ! " 

"Oh,  Mary  Anna!  some  low  person  to  take  all 
the  care  of  dear  little  children!  To  teach  them, 
and—" 

"Why,  have  not  they  a  mother?  I  should  think 
a  mother  would  suffice  as  teacher,  and  anybody  can 
wash  children  and  put  them  to  bed,  I  suppose." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Helen,  thoughtfully.  "1 
have  heard  Lucy  often  speak  of  her  mother's  poor 
health  as  a  hindrance  in  the  way  of  her  teaching. 
And  she  says  a  mother  with  such  a  family  needs  a 
daughter  to  lean  on;  to  sympathize  with  her.     She 


308  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

used  to  say  no  one  could  be  more  useful  than  a 
truly  affectionate  daughter.** 

"Well!  she  was  a  strange  girl,  to  leave  such  a 
home  as  this!** 

"  Papa  says  he  wishes  there  were  more  such  girls 
in  the  world,*'  said  Helen. 

"Your  father  said  that!  Why,  I  thought  he 
wished  beyond  everything  to  keep  Lucy  here  !  *' 

"  Yes,  he  did  indeed  wish  to  keep  her,  and  so  did 
we  all.  We  loved  her  as  if  she  had  been  always  one 
of  us.  But  we  all  feel  that  she  did  right  in  going; 
and  that  if  she  decides  finally  not  to  return,  she  will 
decide  from  a  clear  conviction  of  duty." 

*'  Well ! "  said  Mary  Anna,  sighing,  "  I  am  sorry 
she  has  gone.  I  really  did  think  I  should  catch 
some  of  her  cheerful  ways  of  looking  at  things,  if  I 
saw  more  of  her.  Seeing  her  always  so  serene,  so 
unruffled,  made  me  discontented  with  myself.  I 
don't  know  how  it  is;  but  I  am  always  in  a  ferment. 
You  and  Lucy  always  seem  so  happy !  " 

"  Oh,  don't  class  me  with  Lucy ! "  cried  Helen. 
"1  do  not  know  any  young  person  who  deserves  to 
be  mentioned  on  the  same  day !  I  do  think  her  tlie 
most  faultless  character  1  ever  met  with!  Mamma 
thinks  just  as  I  do.  She  says  Lucy  has  a  peculiar 
charm  and  attraction  about  her — one  that  cannot 
be  described,  but  which  I  am  sure  I  felt  from  the 
outset.     When  I  was  with  her,  I  seemed  to  be  with 


SHOWS    THE    CLOUDS    DISPERSING.  309 

almost  an  angel;  there  was  something  so  pure  and 
even  heavenly  in  her  air ! " 

"Heavenly!  oh,  Helen!" 

"Yes,  heavenly!"  repeated  Helen.  "It  was  the 
result  of  the  prayerful  life  she  led.  She  prayed  all 
the  time,  I  do  believe." 

"And  yet  she  always  seemed  so  cheerful!"  said 
Mary  Anna. 

"Why,  that  was  the  secret  of  her  cheerfulness. 
I  think  she  used  to  feel,  when  anything  interrupted 
or  delayed  her  seasons  of  devotion — only  in  a  more 
intense  degree — -just  as  we  feel  when  we  long  for 
communion  with  a  beloved  earthly  friend.  She  said 
once  that  she  had  always  a  ''consciousness  of  God.'" 

Mary  Anna's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"I  do  not  even  so  much  as  know  what  that 
means !  "  said  she. 

"  It  can  be  learned  by  every  Christian,"  said  Helen, 
very  gently  and  timidly,  for  she  felt  that  she  was 
talking  of  mysteries  into  which  many  a  saint  has 
for  years  struggled  vainly  to  look. 

"It  seems  like  presumption  for  me  to  think  of 
such  things,"  said  Mary  Anna. 

'•I  said  so  myself  to  Lucy,"  replied  Helen;  "and 
she  said  it  was  a  kind  of  presumption  to  which  God 
called  all  His  children.  But  I  did  not,  at  first,  un- 
derstand what  she  meant.  Afterwards  I  began  to 
see  that  I  had  been  trying  to  be  holy,  not  entirely 


310  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

in  my  own  strength,  but  still  wanting  to  have  that 
come  in  and  take  its  share  in  the  work.  Then  I  saw 
that  I  must  renounce  that,  and  let  God  do  the 
whole.  After  this,  as  I  reflected  more  and  more  on 
the  grace  and  strength  in  Him,  I  saw  that  He  had 
enough  even  for  me,  and  that  He  was  willing  to  give 
it  to  me.  So,  it  no  longer  seemed  like  presumption 
for  a  Christian,  even  a  poor,  weak  Christian,  to  strive 
and  long  after  holiness.     It  seemed  like  faitk'^ 

Mary   Anna   only  sighed,  and   looked   perplexed. 

"  Oh,  it  is  just  as  plain  as  daylight ! "  said  Helen. 
"Lucy  used  to  make  it  seem  so  to  me;  and  I  wish 
she  were  here  now.  But,  Mary  Anna!  God  will 
teach  you  Himself  I  I  don't  know  anything.  I  keep 
going  to  Him  and  telling  Him  so;  and  then  He 
teaches  me.  When  I  first  became  a  Christian,  if  I 
found  myself  sinning,  I  always  said  to  myself;  *Now, 
I  know  I  am  not  a  Christian ! '  and  so  I  would  sit 
crying  and  lamenting,  and  never  had  time  to  go  for- 
ward. After  Lucy  came,  I  learned  not  to  do  so. 
When  I  fall,  instead  of  lying  on  the  ground,  crying 
and  wasting  my  time  and  strength  in  complaints,  i 
just  tell  God  how  sorry  I  am,  and  beg  Him  to  for- 
give me,  and  get  right  up  and  go  on.  Lucy  told  me 
to  do  so.  And  oh !  how  many  times  I  Lave 
thanked  her  for  it ! " 

Mary  Anna  caught  this  simple  illustration  and 
held  it  fast.     She  went  home,  already  cheered  and 


SHOWS    THE    CLOUDS    DISPERSING.  dii 

encouraged.  There  sliooe  before  her  now  a  path  in 
which,  "  looking  unto  Jesus,"  she  longed  to  walk. 
Hitherto  she  had  gone  round  and  round  in  an  end* 
less  circle  of  sins  and  sorrows,  making  no  progress, 
and  expecting  no  peace.  To  get  to  heaven  at  last, 
she  hardly  knew  how,  was  all  her  aim.  But  to  go 
there  now,  with  Christ  all  along  the  way !  This  was 
to  begin  to  live  1  Truly,  the  young  Christian  in  that 
far-off,  obscure  home,  had  not,  for  Mary  Anna,  lived 
in  vain!  Not  in  vain  had  she  made  that  almost 
"  angel's  visit,"  which  to  herself  had  ended  in  disap- 
pointment and  pain,  but  to  more  than  one  was  as 
the  rising  of  the  sun  en  a  long-clouded  wintry  day  I 


CHAPTER  XXIIL 


A  BE80LVK 


EBECCA  was  married,  and  had  gone  to 
her  new  home.  The  few  guests  who 
had  been  present  on  the  occasion  were 
likewise  gone.  The  care-worn,  weary 
mother  sat  down  on  one  of  the  empty  chairs, 
and  would  gladly  have  wept;  but  many  sorrows 
had  come  and  gone  over  her  when  she  had  not 
dared  to  steal  time  to  shed  tears,  and  now  they 
were  frozen  up  in  her  heart.  She  felt  two  warm, 
kind  hands  upon  hers.  They  were  Lucy's.  "Dear 
mother,"  said  she,  "we  shall  be  very  happy,  even 
if  we  do  miss  Rebecca." 

"What!    are    you    not    to    go    back    to    your 
uncle?" 

"And   leave  yoa  with  all  these  cares?    No,  in- 
deed, mother!" 

**  Dear  child !  dear  child ! "  cried  her  mother,  fold- 
ing her  tenderly  in   her  arms.      "I   thank  you  a 


A    RESOLVE.  312 

thousand  times;  but  I  will  never  consent  to  this 
fiacrifice ! " 

*'  I  am  liere,  and  I  will  never  leave  you !  '  rei)lied 
l.ucy,   tirtrily. 

Slie  felt  tears  dropping  on  her  hands. 

"  Ah  !  1  am  so  glad  mother  can  shed  tears  again  !  " 
thought  she. 

She  looked  at  the  drooping  figure,  which  was 
becoming  prematurely  bent,  and  at  the  gray  haira 
which  had  crept  in  among  those  raven  locks  she 
used  to  think  i^o  beautiful. 

"  I  will  never  leave  her  again,"  she  said  softly 
to  herself.  And  once  more,  when  she  rose  from 
her  knees  that  night,  she  repeated:  "No,  I  will 
never  leave  her  !  " 

"  How  glad  I  am  you  are  going  to  stay  at  home  1 " 
cried  Hatty,  the  next  day.  "  1  shall  now  have  some- 
body to  do  my  hair  for  me.  It  has  looked  like  a 
fright  ever  since  you  went  away." 

So  saying,  Hatty  placed  brushes  and  combs  in 
Lucy's  hands,  and  threw  herself  down  in  a  low 
chair,  with  a  new  book  in  her  lap.  Lucy  sighed 
a  little,  but  in  a  moment,  resisting  the  thought 
which  had  occasioned  the  sigh,  she  said,  pleasantly: 

"  1  hope  that  is  not  the  only  reason  you  are  glad 
to  have  me  at  home?" 

*'0h,  no!  I  have  forty  reasons,"  returned  Hatt^. 
**To  tell    the  truth,   I   should  not   wonder   if   unclb"* 


314  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMU.Y. 

should  now  invite  me  to  take  your  place  Wht 
Bliould  not  he?  He  is  rich,  and  can  do  it  as  well 
as  not.  And  I  should  make  a  better  use  of  my  time 
than  you  did.  I  should  see  everything  and  every, 
body;  and  learn  the  fashions.  And  now  I  think 
of  it;  are  you  doing  my  hair  in  the   latest  style?*" 

"  Oh,  Hatty !  what  do  we  care  for  style  ? "  asked 
Lucy.  "  I  am  sure  I  know  nothing  about  it,  at  all 
events;  I  was  busy  with  my  lessons." 

She  felt  pained  by  Hatty's  thoughtlessness;  per- 
haps the  more  so,  that  her  strength  was  all  sum- 
moned to  one  point,  leaving  other  weak  spots 
unguarded. 

"  I  think  in  a  year  or  two  hence  it  would  be  of 
real  service  to  you  to  go  to  uncle's,"  she  said. 

"  A  year  or  two  hence !  Why,  my  dear  child,. 
am  I  not  as  old  now  as  you  were  when  you  went 
there  with  flying  colors?  And  besides;  you  know 
very  well  that  I  came  very  near  going  in  your 
stead,  at  that  very  time." 

"  What  a  pity  you  did  not  go ! "  whispered  one 
of  the  boys,  mischievously. 

Hatty  colored  and  kept  silence  for  the  space  of,, 
at  least,  two  minutes. 

Nothing  but  pride  and  an  old  bonnet,  with  an 
old  faded  ribbon,  had  decided  the  question.  Uei 
Picle  had  invited  her  to  accompany  Lucy. 

**A   great  deal   depends  on  one's   dress,"  said  sha 


A     RESOLVE.  31^ 

to  herself.  "If  I  had  had  decent  clothes,  I  should 
have  gone,  and  should  be  there  now." 

She  might  more  properly  have  said:  "A  great 
deal  depends  on  one's  self.  If  Lucy  had  been  as 
rain  as  I,  she  never  would  have  gone  to  visit 
city  friends  in  just  such  garments  as  I  disdained 
to  wear  1 " 

"Well,  Lucy,"  said  she,  *'I  wonder  at  you,  1 
must  say.  Judging  from  uncle's  letters,  they  act- 
ually wanted  to  keep  you  there  your  whole  life. 
And  to  think  you  should  go  and  get  homesick, 
and  come  driving  back  in  such  a  hurry !  "  Twenty 
answers  rose  to  Lucy's  lips,  but  she  did  not  give 
utterance  to  one.  She  thought  within  herself,  "  What 
matters  it  whether  they  do  or  do  not  know  that  it 
wjia  not  home-sickness  that  brought  me  here  ?  God 
knows;  and  that  is  enough!" 

Yet  all  day  the  remembrance  of  Hatty's  last 
remark  followed  and  grieved  her.  It  does  seen* 
hard  to  be  misunderstood  by  those  one  loves !  And 
to  have  the  great  sacrifice  she  had  made,  counted 
as  naught !  Even  laughed  at  as  a  ridiculous  weak- 
ness! Poor  Lucy  felt  as  a  little  child  does  when 
it  has  had  a  fall  and  been  bruised  and  wounded. 
She  \yanted  to  run  right  to  her  mother,  put  her 
head  in  her  lap  and  cry.  But  a  glance  at  the 
pale,  worn  face  restrained  her,  and  when  she  could 
break  away  from  her  labors,  she  went  away  to  her 


316  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

own  little  room  and  "  told  Jesus.'  When  she  retu  iied 
to  the  family,  her  face  seemed  to  shine.  Who  haa 
not  thus  seen  the  human  face  transfigured,  whose 
faa}>py  lot  has  made  him  one  of  a  househi)id  of 
Christians? 

Attracted  towards  her,  they  knew  not  why,  the 
little  ones,  who  had  looked  shyly  upon  her  hither- 
to, came  and  climbed  into  her  lap,  and  patted  her 
face  with  their  soft,  fat  hands,  calling  her  by  those 
fiweet,  endearing  names  that  everybody  loves,  but 
not  everybody  can  win. 

As  they  sat  thus,  Arthur  came  in  from  school. 

"  Oh,  Lucy !  are  you  really  sitting  down  ?  "  cried 
he.  "  1  declare,  I  have  hardly  seen  you  off  your 
feet,  since  you  got  home ! " 

He  knelt  down  before  her,  and  throwing  hia 
arms  around  her,  gave  her  a  real,  joyous,  boyish 
welcome  home,  that  did  her  good. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come !  "  said  he.  "  You 
don't  know  how  I've  missed  you !  None  of  them 
are  like  you,  I  think." 

"Arthur,  dear,"  said  she,  "have  you  been  quite 
well  rtince  I  left  home?" 

He  looked  up,  quickly.  She  would  not  let  hoi 
face  express  the  anxiety  she  felt 

"  Oh,  yes,  pretty  well,  1  reckon.  Only  this  cough, 
more  or  less.  But  that's  nothing."  He  went  oi) 
whif^tling. 


A     RESOLVE.  311 

**  Has  Arthur  coughed  a  great  while,  deal  ? "  she 
asked,  of  one  of  the  little  boys. 

"  Yes — no !  "  said  the  child,  watching  her  lace^ 
and  instinctively  shaping  his  answers  to  suit  its 
varying  expressions. 

Lucy  sighed. 

"  I    did    not    come    home    a    moment    too    soon, 
thought  she.     "Mother   has   grown   ten   years   oldei 
since   I   went  away.     And   Arthur's  cough !     It  al- 
most kills  me ! " 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  as  she  looked  after 
him.  He  had  grown  very  tall,  but  was  thin,  and 
looked  delicate.  Never  had  he  looked  to  her  so 
dear!  As  they  sat  together  in  the  evening,  she 
watched  him,  closely.  His  forehead  had  developed 
rapidly. 

"  What  are  you  looking  at  ? "  he  asked,  a  little 
abruptly,  as  he  felt  her  examining  him, 

"  At  your  forehead,"  she  answered.  "  It  has 
grown  so!  It  is  as  wide  and  high  as  father's  al- 
most." 

"  How  does  home  look  to  you,  dear  child  ?  "  asked 
her  father. 

"  1  was  afraid  to  ask  her  that  question,"  said  hei 
mother. 

"  It  looks  pleasant,  father.  Pleasanter  than  ever 
My  little  room,  too !  I  forgot  to  thank  you  foi 
fitting  it  np  so  nicely 


M8  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"Arthur  papered  it,  with  Hatty's  help/'  said  hei 
•mother,  "and  John  made  the  book-case.  We  are 
^tting  quite  proud  of  John.  And  we  got  two 
lioxes  down  at  the  shoemaker's,  and  covered  them 
^with  chintz;  they'll  do  for  seats,  and  will  hold  your 
clothes,  in  part." 

**And  I  buyed  the  tacks!"  shouted  Horace. 

"Yes;  Horace,  dear  little  fellow,  wanted  to  help 
ou  the  cause,  and  he  went  and  picked  berries  and 
«old  them,  all  himself  He  got  sixpence  for  them; 
and  to  please  him,  I  let  him  buy  the  little  tacks 
with  which  we  fastened  on  the  chintz." 

Lucy  caught  him  up,  and  kissed  him. 

"  How  good  it  does  seem  to  be  at  home,"  she 
eaid. 

**  Is  New  York  as  big  as  the  world  ? "  asked 
Horace. 

They  all  laughed. 

"Oh,  it  is  bigger  than  that,"  said  Hatty. 

"  Mother,  1  have  not  asked  you  yet  about  Mrs. 
L.oe,"  said  Lucy.  "Did  not  you  love  her  very 
much  when  you  were  at  school  together?  She 
-seems  to  love  you  dearly." 

"  We  were  intimate  friends,  though  she  was 
younger  than  the  rest  of  our  set^  as  we  used  to 
call  it.  She  was  a  very  lovely  girl,  and  had  a 
fine  mind.  We  corresponded  a  little  after  I  was 
>inarried;   but  I  was  full  of  care:  you  children   took 


A     RESOLVE.  819 

up  my  time  and  strength;  and,  by  degrees,  we 
wrote  less"  regvilarly.  But  I  love  her  just  as  well 
to-day  as  I  did  the  day  we  parted,  so  maiiv 
many  years  ago.  And  only  to  think!  the  otlu-i 
day  Dr.  White  was  here,  and  1  urged  him,  as  i 
often  have  done,  to  tell  me  the  name  of  the  young 
man  who  ran  over  Arthur,  and  he  told  me  it  way 
Thornton — Edgar  Thornton.  And  it  occurred  to 
me  that  he  might  be  a  younger  brother  of  Mrs. 
Lee,  for  her  father's  name  was  Edgar." 

"Then  I  have  seen  Dr.  Thornton's  brother,  after 
^11 1 "  said  Lucy.  "  Yes,  it  must  be  the  very  same. 
He  must  have  thought  it  very  stupid  in  me,  not 
to  remember !  But  how  should  I  ?  I  never  had 
heard  his  ijame." 

"Young  ladies  sometimes  remember  young  gen- 
tlemen whose  names  they  never  heard,"  said  her 
father,  looking  at  her  and  smiling. 

*'  I  don't  remember  him,"  she  answered,  simply, 
and  her  father  withdrew  his  questioning  gaze,  with 
a  satisfied  air,  that  said,  "She  is  a  child  still.  Ho^- 
could  I  doubt  it?" 

"  Were  you  surprised  when  you  heard  our  Beck^ 
was  going  to  be  married?"  asked  Hatty. 

"Yes,  indeed.  I  could  hardly  believe  it.  I  kiM»\\ 
the  boys  used  to  joke  about  John  Wright;  but  sht 
never  seemed  to  care  anything  about  him.  She 
•eems  still  very  young  to  be  married." 


320  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

Hei  mother  sighed.  "I  never  can  realize  that 
\uy  of  you  grow  older,"  said  she.  "  When  John 
Wright  first  spoke  to  me  about  Rebecca,  I  thought 
he  was  jesting.  You  know  he  is  always  full  of 
fun  ' 

*^A8  full  of  fun  as  Eebecca  is  empty  of  it,"  said 
her   father. 

*'  He  has  a  good  farm,"  continued  her  mother, 
and  would  not  give  me  any  peace  till  I  would  con- 
sent to  their  marriage.  I  hesitated  on  your  account, 
dear;  but  it  was  of  no  use." 

"  She  says  I  shall  come  and  live  with  her,"  said 
one  of  the  little  boys. 

"  Unless  I  go,"  said  Hatty. 

Lucy  looked  at  Hatty  with  surprise  for  a  moment 
"Oh,  don't  go,  dear  Hatty!  "  said  she. 

There  was  so  earnest  a  tone  in  these  words,  that 
Hatty  was  struck  by  them. 

"  Oh,  1  was  only  jesting,"  said  she.  *'  But  why 
shouldn't  I  go  as  well  as  you?" 

Lucy  looked  at  Arthur;  Hatty's  eye  followed  her8» 
ttnd  rested  upon  him. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  you,  Lucy,"  said 
■l.a 

"Now,  mother,  I  am  going  to  be  a  real  comfort 
to  you,"  said  Lucy,  glad  to  change  the  subject,  "  I've 
bad  a  long  rest,  and  I've  been  to  school;  now  I  feel 
the.  better  for  it,  and  I  want  you  to  divide  ofi"  a  par< 


A    RESOLVE.  321 

of  the  work  for  me.  Let  me  have  all  the  care  of 
the  youngest  children.  I'll  wash  and  dress  and  put 
them  to  bed;  make  their  clothes  and  all  that,  and 
you'll  then  have  time  to  take  a  little  rest  Will  you, 
dear  mother  ?  " 

"  YouVe  always  been  a  comfort  to  me,  dear  child,*' 
she  answered. 

"  When  I  see  how  much  there  is  to  do,  I  wonder 
how  I  could  stay  away  so.  But  I  did  not  realize  it 
then." 

"  It  will  be  just  so  when  we  get  to  heaven,"  said 
Arthur,  looking  up  from  his  book.  "  We  sha'n't 
realize  how  much  care  and  trouble  and  work  people 
have;  if  we  could,  we  shouldn't  be  happy;  at  least, 
I  shouldn't." 

There  was  silence  after  this  remark.  Arthur  re- 
turned at  once  to  his  book;  no  one  seemed  partic- 
ularly struck  with  what  he  had  said.  But  to  Lucy 
it  had  a  voice  unheard  by  the  rest;  just  as  his  cough 
had.  She  put  the  little  one  down  from  her  lap,  and 
went  quickly  to  her  room — that  same  room  where, 
a  few  years  before,  she  had  struggled  with  her  ter 
ror  and  her  grief  on  his  account.  All  that  forgotten 
anguish  came  back;  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  could 
not  live  it  over  again. 

"  Oh,  how  thankful  I  am  that  I  came  home !  That 
I  can  stay,  and  be  with  him ;  and  if  he  is  sick,  taka 
care  of  him  1 " 


^22  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

She  heard  him  coming  up  to  his  room,  and  went 
out  to  meet  him. 

"You  look  pale,  Lucy,  dear,"  said  he,  stopping 
before  her  door.     "Don't  you  feel  well?" 

"  One  thing  is,  I'm  so  glad  to  get  home  !  so  thank- 
ful! Dear  Arthur,  you  don't  know  how  hard  it 
was  not  to  see  you  for  so  long !  '* 

"Yes;  it  was  hard  for  me,  too.  Next  to  mo- 
ther, I  love  you.  I  always  have.  And  sometimes 
I  think  that  when  I  am  a  man,  and  have  a  house 
of  my  own,  you'll  come  and  live  with  me;  and  then 
how  we  shall  read  and  study  together — you  on  one 
side  of  the  fire,  and  I  on  the  other,  and  a  little  table 
between  us.  I  often  lie  awake  at  night,  thinking 
it  over!** 

His  face  lighted  and  glowed,  as  he  spoke. 

"He  doesn't  look  so  sick  as  I  thought  he  did," 
said  Lucy  to  herself  "His  eyes  are  very  bright: 
I  never  saw  such  eyes;  they're  so  large  and  dark, 
that  they  make  him  look  pale  and  thin !  '* 

So,  for  the  moment,  she  comforted  herself;  not 
wanting  to  know  the  truth. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


A  RELIEF, 


H    raotlier!**    cried    one    of    the    children, 
hurrying  in  from  school,   not  long   aftei 
Lucy's  return    home,    "there    is  a    great 
big  box  down  at  the  postoffice,  directed 
to  you.     And  here's  a  letter  for  Lucy,  too !  '* 

While  the  mother  suffered  herself  to  be  led  off 
by  the  children,  to  make  arrangements  for  the  at- 
tainment of  this  wondrous  box,  Lucy  eagerly  opened 
her  letter.  It  was  from  her  uncle;  and  the  old  yel- 
low note  fell  out  and  lay  unnoticed  upon  hei 
lap. 

"I    want   this,"    said    Horace,    placing   his    hand 
upon  it.     Lucy  read  on,  not  observing  the  child. 
"I'll  put  it  in  the  fire!"  he  said,  roguishly. 
He  had  not  lost  his  old  trick  of  throwing  things 
into  the  fire;  and  now  proceeded  towards  it  as  fast 
as  those  little  fat  legs  of  his  could  carry  him. 
Closing    her    letter,    Lucy    looked    up,    saw    tlie 


324  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

paper  firmly  grasped  in  the  small  hand,  and  hasi 
tened  to  rescue  it.  Hearing  her  steps  behind  him, 
Horace  quickened  his  own;  a  moment,  and  the  old 
yellow  note  was  in  the  midst  of  the  bright  blaze; 
less  than  a  moment,  and  there  was  nothing  left 
but  the  logs  of  wood  crackling  and  burning  cheer- 
fully away,  and  the  minute  fragment  of  ashes  the 
paper  had  left  to  tell  what  had  been  there. 

Lucy  sat  down  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  I*m  sorry  1  I'm  sorry !  "  cried  Horace,  not  under- 
standing her  tears;  and,  climbing  into  her  lap,  he 
tried  to  unclasp  the  hands  that  hid  her  face. 

She  threw  her  arms  around  him,  and  kissed  him 
over  and  over,  while,  with  his  little  apron,  he  wiped 
away  her  tears. 

**  The  box  can't  get  in  at  the  door ! "  shouted  a 
merry  voice. 

"Oh,  yes,  it  can,  it  is  long  and  narrow!"  cried 
another. 

They  all  came  tumbling  in  together,  all  those 
happy  boys ;  and  very  soon  the  big  \jox  was  opened, 
and  then  there  was  joy  and  confusion  indeed! 
Never  was  there  a  gayer  group,  as  jackets  were 
tried  on,  caps  appropriated,  and  new  city  boots 
drawn  forth  and  drawn  on.  Not  one  forgotten  I 
Not  one!  And,  in  the  midst  of  the  uproar,  Lucy 
drew  her  father  aside  and  told  him  all  about  the 
bit  of  paper  little  Horace    had  destroyed,   and  the 


A    RELIEF.  32ft 

child  repeated,  *'  I'm  sorry !  I'm  sorry  I  I  won't  do 
BO  again ! " 

"  That  note  has  lain  upon  my  breast  like  a  night- 
mare!" said  her  father,  drawing  a  long,  relieved 
sigh.     *'  Yes,  like  a  nightmare !  " 

"And  you  are  free  now!"  cried  Lucy,  joyfully. 
"You  can't  help  it  now.  Horace  has  settled  it  for 
you!"  and  she  caught  the  child  and  kissed  him 
again,  calling  him  a  little  rogue,  and  all  sorts  of 
pet  names,  till  he  began  to  think  that  throwing 
paper  into  the  fire  was  a  feat  to  be  repeated  on 
the  first  possible  opportunity. 

The  good  news  soon  reached  the  ears  of  the 
busy  mother,  who  came  to  speak  her  gratitude, 
but  could  not.  "This  is  too  much!"  was  all  she 
could  say,  and  then  she  was  glad  to  snatch  up  the 
baby  and  hide  her  face  on  his  soft  neck. 

Lucy  went  now  to  help  the  children,  who  were 
almost  wild  with  delight,  as  they  penetrated  farther 
and  farther  into  the  depths  of  the  box.  Hatty  made 
herself  useful  in  general  and  in  particular,  while  she 
held  fast  under  one  arm  a  very  special  package  ad- 
dressed to  herself,  into  which  she  had  not  time  to 
look. 

Lucy's  quick  eye  soon  perceived  that  Arthur  had 
vanished  from  the  noisy  group.  She  went  to  look 
for  him. 

"I   was   tired   a  little,"  said  he,  apologetically,  ag 


326  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

she  entered  his  room;  "and,  besides,  I  wanted  tc 
look  at  my  new  books.  See,  Lucy!  all  these  books 
for  me !  Isn't  it  strange  they  should  have  sent  just 
the  very  books  I  wanted  most?" 

"Yes,  they  are  very  beautiful!*'  said  she.  "But, 
dear  Arthur,  hadn't  we  all  better  be  together  just 
now  ?  " 

"  How  you  always  think  of  everything !  '*  said  he 
smiling,  and  following  her. 

**I  thought  they  might  not  all  understand  your 
wanting  to  be  by  yourself  when  you  are  happy; 
that's  all.  I  understand  it  myself,  but  perhaps 
Hatty  and  John — " 

"Oh,  yes;  I  am  very  willing  to  come!"  repeated 
Arthur.     "  But  what  have  you  been  crying  about  ?  " 

"  Nothing  new,"  said  she,  smiling.  "  Only  at  their 
kindness  in  doing  so  much  for  us  all." 

Arthur  threw  his  arm  around  her,  and  they  went 
down-stairs  together.  He  saw  with  pride  and  pleas- 
ure that  he  was  fast  attaining  Lucy's  height,  and 
that  now  they  could  easily  walk  in  this  position,  of 
which  brothers  and  sisters  are  so  fond. 

"  I  have  grown  an  inch  since  you  decided  to  stay 
at  home ! "  said  he. 

"  It  is  a  dear,  good  home ! "  said  Lucy.  "  I  never 
wish  to  leave  it,  even  for  a  better — if  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  a  better  in  this  world." 

"  It  seems  hard,  too,  for  you  lo  be  tied  down  here. 


A    RELIEF.  327 

when  you  might  be  enjoying  yourself  in  Bchool,  and 
with  Cousin  Helen  I"  said  Arthur. 

*'0h,  no;  it  doesn't  seem  hard!  It  seems  easy  I"* 
returned  she.  With  Arthur's  loving  arm  around 
her,  everything  looked  easy! 

As  they  went  down  together,  she  began  to  ex- 
plain  to  him  about  the  note. 

"  Uncle  once  made  me  promise  to  accept  a  present 
from  him,"  said  she;  "and  I  was  neither  to  refuse, 
nor  sell,  nor  give  it  away.  So,  of  course,  father  could 
not  help  himself,  if  he  would.  Besides,  Horace 
threw  it  into  the  fire;  so  that  ends  it." 

"  It  wouldn't  end  it  if  father  chose  to  make  a  new 
note;  would  it?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  thought,  when  I  saw  it  in  the 
fire,  that  now  father  would  be  obliged  to  own  him- 
self out  of  debt.  I  don't  know  anything  about 
business." 

"Nor  I,  either.  But  I  am  pretty  sure  that  the 
burning  of  the  note  need  make  no  difierence  unless 
father  chooses." 

"  But  he  can't  choose !  I  promised  uncle  I  would 
accept  whatever  he  sent.  Of  course,  I  could  not 
guess  it  was  anything  so  important.  But  since  I 
have  learned  to  know  and  love  uncle,  and  know  how 
much  money  he  gives  away  every  month,  I  do  not 
feel  about  this  debt  as  I  did  before.  And  I  don't 
think  father  does.     I  am  sure  he  would  not  be  wiU- 


328  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

ing  to  be  dependent  on  uncle,  or  anybody  else ;  but 
I  can't  see  any  harm  in  just  this.  It  wasn't  a  very 
large  sum." 

"  I  suppose  it  doesn't  look  very  large  to  uncle ;  but 
it  does  to  me;  and  if  I  live  to  be  a  man,  I  mean  to 
pay  it.  I  don't  like  to  have  people  give  us  so 
much." 

"  People !  You  don't  call  uncle  *  people,*  do  you  ? 
Oh,  Arthur!" 

He  smiled. 

"  It  is  because  you  do  not  know  him.  Eemembei 
he  is  mother's  own  brother!  You  say  you  expect 
me  to  come  and  live  with  you  one  of  these  days; 
now,  do  you  want  me  to  pay  for  my  board?" 

He  smiled  again.  "It  seems  different,"  said  he 
•*  I  can't  feel  that  Uncle  Arthur  is  as  near  to  mothei 
as  you  are  to  me." 

While  this  conversation  was  going  on,  another, 
of  like  nature,  was  proceeding  between  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Grant.  He  was  unwilling  to  accept  this  relinqiiislv 
ment  of  the  old  debt.  Pride  even  urged  him  to  leave 
it  as  an  heir-loom  to  his  children.  There  was  no 
prospect  that  he  would  ever  pay  it  himself. 

"Your  theory,  that  we  must  have  trouble  in  some 
shape,  haunts  me  to-day,"  said  he.  "  Suppose,  now, 
I  consent  to  put  my  head  out  from  under  this  yoke, 
do  not  you  suppose  soma  new  trial  will  come  hurry- 
ing in?" 


A    RELIEF.  329 

"Perhaps  so,"  she  answered  calmly.  "But  when 
God  sends  us  new  trials,  He  will  send  us  new  grace 
and  patience.  I'm  sure  patience  with  that  debt  was 
nearly  worn  threadbare." 

"  I've  got  so  used  to  trouble,  that  I  don't  think  I 
can  get  along  without  it.  And  no  doubt  God  seea 
that  I  need  it.  But  poverty  is  better  than  sickness 
and  death." 

"You  can't  choose  for  yourself  which  you  will 
have.  We  have  had  the  discipline  of  poverty  a 
great  many  years.  Perhaps  it  has  done  us  all  the 
good  it  can  do.  And  so  God  is  going  to  try  some- 
thing else.  It  may  be  prosperity;  it  may  be  afflic- 
tion; but  in  either  case,  I  Tcnow  it  will  be  just  the 
best  thing  that  could  possibly  befall  us.  It  is  no 
matter  what  happens,  if  we  can  feel  that." 

"I  am  not  sure  that  I  do  feel  it  as  you  do;  but  1 
can  be  made  to  do  so,  when  the  time  comes.  The 
truth  is,  never,  since  we  had  children,  have  I  been  so 
proud  of,  so  happy  in  ours,  as  since  Lucy's  return. 
How  the  child  has  improved  !  I  can  hardly  keep  my 
eyes  off  her  face,  it  is  so  lovely !  She  is  not  in  the 
very  least  spoiled.  If  anything,  she  is  more  childlike 
and  simple  than  ever." 

*'  But  are  you  afraid  anything  is  going  to  happen 
to  her?" 

"No;  only  that  I  can  see  that  the  spot  she  occu- 
pies   in    my    heart    is   a   weak    spot;    one   where    1 


330  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

might  be  made  to  suffer  as  I  never  have  suffered 
yet." 

His  wife  looked  up  into  his  face,  and  smiled. 
"  What  a  mercy  it  is  that  you  and  I  are  so  unlike  ! 
If  I  had  as  many  gloomy  fancies  in  a  year  as  you 
have  in  a  single  day,  I  do  not  know  what  would 
become  of  us  all  * 

"  You  ve  kept  uiy  head  above  water  a  good  many 
years,"  he  answered  tenderly.  "A*n*t  you  almost 
tired  of  it?" 

**It's  worth  living  for!"  she  answered.  "And 
now  promise  me !  you'll  write  to  my  brother,  accept- 
ing the  release,  won't  you?  or  shall  I?" 

"  If  I  accept  it,  I'll  do  it  like  a  man,"  he  replied. 
"I'll  write  myself." 

She  placed  pen  and  paper  before  him.  "  It's  best 
to  strike  when  the  iron  is  hot,"  she  said.  "  By  the 
way,  have  you  eve  asked  Lucy  about  the  money 
she  sent  home  for  Arthur?* 

"  No ;  we  have  had  so  much  else  to  think  of  and 
talk  about.'* 

*'  Her  uncle  insisted  on  her  having  spending- 
money,  as  Helen  did;  and  the  dear  child  did  not 
use  a  cent  of  it  for  herself.  She  must  have  seen  a 
thousand  things  it  w  )uld  have  been  pleasant  to  buy 
Books  especially." 

"We  are  rich  in  our  children,*'  said  Mr.  Grant,, 
without  looking  up  from  his  letter. 


A    RELIEF.  331 

"  I  think  this  is  going  to  be  an  easy  winter,"  sha 
continued.  "There's  no  baby;  and  we  are  out  of 
debt;  and  John  and  Arthur  will  both  be  provided 
for;  and  Lucy  says  she  has  clothes  enough  for  her- 
self and  Hatty  too.  You  know  she  won't  need  so 
many  here  as  she  did  there.  Every  year  there  has 
been  some  special  burden ;  usually  a  baby ;  but  now 
I  begin  to  see  my  way  through." 

She  went  back  to  the  kitchen,  where  she  found 
the  children  making  merry  with  their  new  posses- 
sions. 

The  "baby,"  as  they  still  called  Willy,  sat  flat  ou 
the  floor,  in  the  midst  of  his  treasures;  and,  with  an 
air  of  inefi'able  satisfaction,  consumed  a  stick  of 
candy,  while  one  hand  grasped  a  stout  wooden  cart, 
whose  wooden  horses  stood  rampant  under  his  in- 
experienced direction.  Horace  was  near,  arrayed  in 
a  new  pair  of  trowsers;  his  hands  were  plunged  into 
the  depths  of  his  pockets,  where  they  jingled  certain 
bright  coins  just  discovered  there.  He  looked  still 
like  a  little  king,  as  he  used  to  do  in  his  babyhood; 
and  quite  conscious  of  the  dignity  even  majesty  it- 
self might  be  pardoned  for  seeking  in  new  trowsers 
and  real  boots.  His  two  elder  brethren  danced 
about  him,  similarly  arrayed,  while  Tom  went  into 
silent  raptures  over  his  share  of  the  spoils,  and  won- 
dered what  Fred  Hays  would  say  when  he  saw  him 
Bome  into  meeting  next  Sunday  1     John  was  lost  in 


382  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

thought ;  a  complete  set  of  tools  had  made  him  feel 
both  rich  and  responsible.  Such  tools  were  not  to 
be  found  every  day.  A  boy  who  owned  a  treasure 
so  valuable  ought  to  be  a  sober  industrious  fellow, 
invent  something  remarkable,  and  immortalize  him- 
Belf!  Every  one  was  pleased.  Every  one  had  just 
what  he  or  she  wanted.  Even  Lucy  went  into  rap- 
tures when  she  found  the  little  simple  clock,  which 
she  knew  was  of  trifling  expense,  yet  would  be  just 
as  useful  to  herself  as  the  most  costly  watch,  as  well 
as  far  more  suitable  in  her  circumstances.  The  com- 
bination of  a  great  gift  with  a  smaller  one,  is  oft- 
en happy.  Thus  the  Grants,  while  weighed  down 
under  the  sense  of  obligation,  found  it  now.  The 
box  seemed  to  make  the  acceptance  of  the  old  note 
easier.  The  philosophy  of  this  is  simple.  The 
smaller  gift  says :  "  Love  and  good-will  were  not  ex- 
hausted in  the  greater  favor.     I  come  to  prove  it !  '* 

Amid  the  joy  and  excitement  of  this  day,  Lucy's 
fears  concerning  Arthur  were  lulled  to  rest.  He  was 
in  fine  spirits  during  the  whole  evening;  one  of  his 
cheeks  was  brilliant  with  apparent  health,  and  the 
cough,  as  he  sat  by  the  fireside,  sounded  less  om- 
inous. 

*'  It  may  be  nothing  more  than  such  a  cough  as  I 
had,"  she  tho  ight.  But  as  she  listened  to  it  as  she 
lay  in  bed,  it  struck  her  more  painfully.  She  rose 
and  went  down  as  softly  as  possible,  in  search  of 


A    RELIEF.  333 

Bome  simple  remedies  that  were  always  kep^t  on 
hand,  and  in  entering  the  kitchen  for  a  candle,  she 
awoke  her  mother. 

"Is  anything  the  matter?"  she  asked. 

"Arthur  coughs  a  good  deal;  I  thought  I  would 
get  something  for  him,"  she  answered. 

"He  has  said  nothing  about  it,"  said  the  voice, 
now  more  anxiously. 

"I  think  this  will  relieve  him,"  said  Lucy,  aa 
cheerfully  as  possible.  "  I'm  so  sorry  youVe  waked 
up  1  I  thought  I  could  creep  in  softly  without 
disturbing  you." 

"  If  he  coughs  badly,  we  must  have  Dr.  White 
see  about  it,"  said  her  father. 

"You  know  I  got  nicely  over  mine,"  said  Lucy. 

"  Yes,  she  did,"  said  her  mother,  as  Lucy  retired. 
"I  dare  say  this  is  just  such  a  cough  as  hers 
was." 

Lucy  crept  up  to  Arthur:  his  candle  was  burning; 
he  almost  sat  up  in  bed,  there  were  so  many  pillows 
behind  him.  He  looked  up  with  his  usual  pleas- 
ant smile,  and  said, 

'Now  youVe  caught  me  reading  in  bed!" 

"  It  is  one  o'clock  1 "  she  answered. 

"Yes,  I  dare  say.  But  I  sleep  best  towards 
morning.     What's  that?" 

"Only  a  cough-mixture;  come,  take  a  teaspoon- 
ful.** 


334  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"To  please  you,  I  will.  Especially  if  yon  won't 
tell  mother  I  read  in  bed!"  he  said,  playfully. 
The  smile  and  the  jest  did  not  deceive  her  this  time. 
She  went  back  to  her  room,  and  lay  awake  all  nighi 
listening  to  the  cough. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

A  SHADOW, 

H,  Hatty !  what  spirits  you  are  in ! "  said 
Lucy,  as,  arrayed  in  some  of  her  sister's 
city  garments,  Hatty  came  dancing  into 
her  room  early  the  next  morning. 
"There!    isn't    that   a   perfect   fit?"    said    Hatty. 
'One  would  think  the  dress  was  made  for  me!" 

"You  may  have  it  and  welcome,"  replied  Lucy. 
"I  meant  you  should  have  some  of  my  dresses. 
But,  Hatty,  how  you  do  fly  about ! " 

"Well,  it  is  enough  to  make  one  fly,  to  see  how 
cheerful  father  is  looking.  And  I  can  tell  you,  such 
presents  as  came  yesterday  won't  come  every  dav 
in  the  year  I  ** 

"  No,  indeed,  I  hope  not,*'  said  Lucy. 
"Oh,  Lucy!  do  put  away  that  matronly  air.     It 
is  not  becoming  to  you  at  all.     You  and  mothet 
geem  to  think  it  a  sin  to  smile." 
*'0h,    Hatty!" 


BM  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"Well,  you  try  to  keep  me  from  smiling,  at  any 
rate.  Now,  what  harm  is  there  in  my  *  flying 
about,'  as  you  call  it  ?  " 

"None,  dear  Hatty.  It  does  me  good  to  see  you 
happy.  Only  sometimes  I  look  forward  to  the  time 
when  you  will  have  real  troubles,  and  then  I  long 
BO  to  give  you  something  that  is  even  better  than 
mere  good  spirits — something  to  lean  on  when  they 
fail." 

"We  should  not  borrow  trouble,"  said  Hatty. 

"No;  but  there  is  no  harm  in  borrowing  sunshine, 
if  it  will  make  a  gloomy  future  less  gloomy.  Indeed, 
dear  Hatty,  I  hope  your  evil  day  is  far  off;  and  I 
would  not  alarm  you  now,  if  I  could  help  it.  But 
I  must  speak  to  some  one,  and  I  dare  not  excite 
mother's  fears  until  I  have  consulted  you.  Ever 
since  I  came  home,  I  have  noticed  how  extrava- 
gantly fond  you  are  of  Arthur;  as  indeed  we  all 
are.     He  is  certainly  a  remarkable  boy ! " 

"  That  he  is  indeed ! "  returned  Hatty.  "  His 
teacher  says  he  is  the  finest  boy  in  school.  And 
you  have  not  the  least  idea  how  he  has  appeared 
while  you  have  been  gone.  So  kind  to  all  the  chil- 
dren; so  affectionate  towards  mother!  Shs  often  has 
spoken  of  it,  and  said  Arthur  would  be  the  stay  and 
gtaff  of  her  old  age." 

"  I  am  sure  he  will  be  that  to  us  all,  if  he  lives 
to  become  a  man,"  said  Lucy.     She  paused  and  lis- 


A   SHADOW.  835 

tened.  From  Arthur's  little  room  she  still  heard 
that  cough  which  through  the  long  night  had  vi- 
brated through  every  nerve  of  her  heart. 

"But  I  don't  understand  you  I"  said  Hatty.  "Is 
anything  the  matter  with  Arthur?" 

*  He  seems  changed;  and  looks  ill,  to  me.  And 
his  cough — don't  you  notice  that?" 

"  Oh,  Lucy !  I  don't  think  he  looks  ill  I  What  can 
have  put  that  into  your  head?  It  is  true  he  grows 
tall,  fast;  and  that  makes  some  difference  in  his 
strength." 

*' Don't  be  excited,  Hatty  dear,"  said  Lucy,  de- 
tecting beneath  these  careless,  pettish  words,  real 
anxiety  and  alarm.  *'We  must  not  forget  that 
Arthur  is  in  the  hands  of  God,  and  that  nothing  can 
befall  him  without  His  consent.  I  shall  be  sorry  I 
spoke  to  you  about  him,  if  you  look  so !  I  felt  so 
afraid  some  terrible  blow  was  coming!  And  you 
appeared  so  unprepared  for  it ! " 

"If  Arthur  dies,  I  hope  I  shall!"  cried  Hatty, 
passionately. 

*'  I  know  you  don't  mean  that !  But  I  have  given 
you  great  pain;  needlessly,  perhaps.  But  that 
cough !     Listen,   Hatty  !  " 

Hatty  listened.  The  cough,  hitherto  hardly  no- 
ticed, now  sounded  painfully  in  her  awakened 
ears. 

"Lucyl"  said  she,   "I'll  tell  you   what   I   think 


338  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

about  this  world.  I  think  it  is  a  haiefvl  place  tc 
live  in!  Just  as  you  get  to  feeling  contented  and 
happy  in  it,  some  dreadful  thing  happens,  and  you 
don  t  care  whether  you  live  or  die ! " 

"Well,  dear  Hatty,"  said  Lucy,  weeping,  "and 
is  not  this  the  very  reason  why  we  want  our 
happiness  established  on  something  which  is 
not  changeable?  Something  which  cannot  die, 
even  ?  " 

Poor  Hatty  could  not  answer.  The  shadow  of 
her  first  real  sorrow  was  stealing  over  that  path 
which  had  seemed  all  sunshine.  Everything  hith- 
erto had  given  way  before  her  beauty,  her  health, 
her  fine,  joyous  spirits.     But  now — 

She  rushed  from  the  room  to  find  her  brother. 

"  He  shaU  not  die !  "  thought  she. 

She  flew  to  Arthur's  door:  it  was  early,  and, 
worn  with  the  fatigue  occasioned  by  his  cough 
and  a  sleepless  night,  he  had  not  yet  risen. 

**  Come  in ! "  he  said,   on  hearing  Hatty's  knock. 

She  darted  in,  and  threw  herself  into  his  arms, 
in  a  paroxysm  of  tears  and  sobs. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked,  in  great  alarm. 

"Oh,  Arthur!  dear  Arthur!  dear,  darling  Arthur! 
don't  die !  don't  die ! "  she  gasped. 

"Who  says  I  am  going  to  die?"  he  asked,  be- 
coming very  pale,  and  looking  towards  the  little 
window    in  vain  yearning    for    air.      In    her    half 


A    SHADOW.  339 

frantic    grief,    she   did   not   observe    the   look,    but 
went  on  incoherently: 

"Only  just  live,  dear  Arthur;  you  may  be  sick, 
if  you've  a  mind,  and  you  needn't  even  try  tj  be 
well;  and  it's  no  matter  if  you  don't  even  talk,  if  it 
hurts  you!  Only  just  live;  only  just  promise  yor 
will ! "  She  fell  on  her  knees  by  the  side  of  his 
bed,  and,  clasping  her  hands,  looked  imploringly 
up  into  his  face.  He  looked  down  upon  her  with 
a  smile  she  never  forgot;  the  momentary  surprise 
and  alarm  had  subsided;  he  lay  back  upon  his  pil- 
low, very  pale,  but  serene,  almost  joyous. 

"  If  it  were  not  for  you,  and  mother,  and  Lucy, 
I  should  be  too  happy ! "  he  said,  faintly.  He 
coughed  again ;  and  the  red  life-blood  gushed  forth, 
staining  the  clasped,  imploring  hands,  and  the  white 
sheets,  and  the  gay  dress  in  which  Hatty  had  decked 
herself.  She  ran  shrieking  to  Lucy,  who,  on  her 
knees,  was  wrestling  for  submission  to  the  Will 
which  was  so  full  of  mystery.  In  a  moment  she 
was  at  his  side,  had  seen  the  pale,  deluged  figure, 
and,  suppressing  the  agony  that  struggled  not  less 
fiercely  in  her  heart  than  in  Hatty's,  she  sought 
the  simple  remedy  always  at  hand,  and,  for  the 
moment,  always  available.  Arthur  was  relieved; 
he  smiled  upon  her,  and  pressed  her  hand,  and 
would  have  spoken;  but  she  would  not  allow  him 
Their  father   and   mother   now   came    hurriedly  in 


340  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

John,  and  Hatty,  and  the  little  children  came  on 
tiptoe,  and  holding  their  breath,  behind  their  par- 
ents.  How  much  anguish  can  be  crowded  into  one 
Bmall  room !  How  much  can  lie  in  one  heart,  oi 
hide  under  one  calm  smile ! 

Arthur  greeted  each  with  a  glance  of  pleasure., 
which  each  strove  vainly  to  return.  His  father  al- 
lowed himself  time  for  only  one  kiss  upon  the 
white  forehead,  and  then  went  hastily  out  in 
search  of  Dr.  White,  who  had  not  left  his  house, 
and  was  therefore  speedily  by  Arthur's  side.  He 
said  little,  and  prescribed  little;  entire  rest,  how- 
ever, he  enjoined  strictly.  Once  more  trembling 
hands  arranged  the  '*  north  room "  for  the  sick 
boy;  once  more  a  fire  burned  on  its  cold  hearth, 
and  with  gentleness  and  care  he  was  carried 
thither.  No  one  understood  the  occasion  of  hia 
sudden  illness,  save  Arthur  and  the  self-upbraid- 
ing, miserable  Hatty.  She  knew  but  too  well 
that  by  her  recklessness  and  precipitation  she 
had  hastened  the  evil  day  she  sought  only  tc? 
arrest.  How  thankfully  Lucy  now  recognized 
the  good  Providence  by  which  she  had  been 
brought  home !  She  was  not  now  torn  from  Ar- 
thur's side  by  the  pressure  of  other  duties;  she 
was  granted  the  luxury  of  sitting  by  his  side 
hour  after  hour,  day  after  day;  to  watch  every 
look,  to  dwell  on   every  tone,  to  feel  the  thin  fin- 


A   SHADOW.  34:1 

p^ers  clasp  her  own  with  fervent  affection;  to  see 
the  pale  face  grow  brighter  at  her  approach,  and 
the  loving  eye  follow  her  every  motion.  With  his 
failing  life,  her  strong  heart  grew  stronger;  she  felt 
that  there  was  an  Arm  beneath  and  around  her 
whose  power  she  never  could  have  learned  save 
in  the  hour  of  sorrow.  One  evening,  as  he  lay 
quietly  with  closed  eyes  and  appeared  to  sleep, 
she  sat  down  by  his  side,  thinking  over  the  past 
and  arming  herself  for  the  future.  All  her  disap- 
pointed hopes  concerning  him  lay  withered  before 
her,  and  as  she  regarded  them,  a  heavy  sigh  es- 
caped her. 

"Is  that  you,  Lucy?"  asked  Arthur. 

She  started  up  and  went  to  him. 

"I  thought  you  were  asleep,  dear,"  said  she. 

"No,  I  was  looking  at  you.  I  was  thinking  how 
anxious  you  have  been,  ever  since  I  can  remember, 
first,  to  have  me  good;  then,  to  see  me  wise.  And 
now  you  need  not  feel  grieved  that  I  have  not 
had  the  education  you  meant  I  should  have.  For 
I  am  going  to  a  far  better  school  than  you  even 
ever  asked  for  me.  Christ,  Himself,  will  teach  me. 
I  shall  learn  of  angels,  and  of  apostles,  and  of 
those  great  and  good  men  who  are  now  saints  in 
heaven.  And  I  want  you  to  know,  because  it  will 
comfort  you  when  I  am  ^one,  that  you  showed  me 
the  way  there.     You  went  first,  and  I  followed.     1 


342  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

did  not  think  so  very  much  of  what  my  fathei 
and  mother  said.  I  thought  they  were  old,  and 
tired  of  life,  and  liked  religion  because  it  fell  in 
with  their  matured  tastes.  But  I  could  not  think 
that  of  you.  I  knew,  when  you  urged  me  to  go 
to  Christ,  that  He  must  be  a  friend  for  the  young, 
too." 

"I  wouldn't  talk  any  more  now,  dear  Arthur," 
said  Lucy,  gently. 

"No,  it  does  me  good.  I  want  to  hear  you  say 
that  you  are  glad  for  me  that  I  am  going  away  from 
this  world.  And,  Lucy,  take  care  of  poor  mother. 
Comfort  her  when  I  am  gone.  And  Hatty  too;  I 
think  a  great  deal  of  her  which  I  would  tell  you,  if 
I  were  not  so  weak.  You  must  lead  them  all  to 
Jesus.  Mother  will  help  you;  Jesus  Himself  will 
help  you.  Never  mind  if  they  don't  learn  anything 
else;  I  see  how  worthless  the  finest  education  would 
be  to  me  now,  if  I  had  that  and  nothing  else." 

*'  Tm  afraid  to  let  you  talk  any  more,  dear  Arthur," 
said  Lucy :  "  I  love  to  hear  you ;  but  I  know  it  tires 

you?; 

*'No,  it  does  me  good.  I  want  to  say  one  thing 
more,  because  it  may  help  to  comfort  you  when  1 
am  gone.  And  1  may  not  have  another  time,  sc 
good  as  this."  He  rested  a  few  minutes  in  silence, 
then  said,  "  I  have  been  thinking  of  that  day  we  weni 
to  the  top  of  Mount  Prospect,  in   H ,  together 


A   SHADOW.  343 

Yon  know  I  went  first,  and  how  tired  I  was,  the 
81111  was  so  hot,  and  the  hill-side  so  steep.  While  1 
was  going  up,  I  kept  pitying  you,  who  were  far  be- 
hind, to  think  you  had  to  climb  all  the  hard,  rough 
path,  in  the  heat  and  over  the  stones.  But  when  I 
got  to  the  top  and  sat  down  there,  and  saw  the  beau- 
tiful view,  that  paid  for  all  the  trouble;  then  I  left 
oft*  feeling  anxious  about  you.  I  said  to  myself, 
'  She'll  soon  be  here ;  it  isn't  far ;  and  she'll  forget  her 
fatigue  when  she  sees  what  I  see.' " 

He  paused  again  to  rest.  Lucy  fanned  him  gently, 
and  moistened  his  lips.  After  a  time  he  began 
again : 

"Just  so  it  seems  to  me,  when  I  look  back  now 
from  the  place  I'm  in.  I  should  feel  sorry — yes,  I 
should  be  distressed  to  see  you  climbing  up,  and 
climbing  up,  and  getting  hurt  in  the  rough  places, 
and  faint  in  the  heat;  but  I  look  down,  and  it's  only 
a  little  way;  you're  almost  here;  and  when  you  get 
here,  you  won't  even  remember  how  you  got  here; 
you'll  have  enough  to  do  looking  at  the  beautiful 
view  You'll  think  you  were  only  a  minute  in  com- 
ing; you'll  forget  what  hard  work  it  was  toiling  up. 
Have  1  made  it  plain?  do  you  understand?  For  I'm 
almost  there;  I  sha'n't  be  able  to  say  much  more." 
He  fell  back,  exhausted,  upon  his  pillows. 

Lucy  went  quickly  out  and  called  her  mother. 
Arthur  had  fainted;  it  was  long  before  they  could 


344  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

restore  him.  When  at  last  he  opened  his  eyes,  h« 
smiled  upon  them  and  said,  ''  I  thought  I  was  almost 
there ! " 

These  were  his  last  dying  thoughts ;  he  was  never 
again  able  to  converse,  save  in  w^hispered  sentences. 
Growing  weaker  every  day,  and  not  inclining  to 
talk,  he  lay  quietly  listening  to  hymns  and  Bible 
words;  sometimes  making  a  single,  child-like  remark 
about  going  to  Christ's  school;  and  then  relapsing 
into  silence  again.  Poor  Hatty,  gentle  and  thought- 
ful now,  hung  over  him  night  and  day,  secretly  re- 
proaching herself  and  bewailing  her  indiscretion; 
yet  solaced  by  many  a  loving  word  and  caress  from 
the  happy,  dying  boy. 

At  last,  with  a  hand  of  his  beloved  Lucy  in  one 
of  his,  and  that  of  Hatty  in  the  other,  Arthur  entered 
fearlessly  into  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death ;  and 
they  who  had  known  his  life,  doubted  not  that  when 
the  sisterly  grasp  was  detached  from  his,  angels 
came  and  entered  into  their  places,  and  guided  him 
onward  to  a  better  country,  and  into  the  enjoy- 
taent  of  eternal  felicity. 


CHAPTER  XXVL 


TEE  BROKEN  CIBCLS, 


RTHUR  was  gone,  and  his  little  room, 
wherein  he  had  early  given  himself  to 
God,  remained  as  a  Bethel  for  more  than 
one  of  the  W3eping  household.  Thero 
his  mother  knelt  often  while  her  children  slept, 
and  sought  consolation  for  herself  and  for  them. 
Lucy  loved  there  to  catch  the  spirit  of  her  departed 
brother,  and  so  nerve  herself  for  the  cheerful  per- 
formance of  the  duties  pressing  upon  her.  And 
Hatty  too  would  often  steal  to  this  little  sanctuary, 
hide  her  face  upon  his  pillow,  and  weep  such  tears  as 
needed  not  to  be  repented  of,  while  she  breathed  pe- 
titions which  sorrow  alone  could  have  won  from  her 
hitherto  thoughtless  heart.  Even  the  little  boys  felt 
heaven  very  near  when  they  could  creep  noiselessly 
into  dear  Arthur's  room,  look  at  his  well-arranged 
books,   and  recall  holy  words  he  had  often  spoken 


346  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

to  them  there.  A  quiet  serenity  settled  down  upoc 
them  all,  and  soon  it  might  have  seemed  that  every- 
thing went  on  as  before.  Alas!  every  bereaved 
heart  knows  it  could  not  have  been  so  !  Death  can- 
not enter  a  family  circle  and  snatch  thence  the  least 
of  all  its  members,  without  leaving  traces  of  his  icy 
fingers  on  many  a  chilled  hope,  on  many  a  silenced 
spring  of  action.  Rivers  of  waters  cannot  wash 
away  his  footprints  from  the  family  hearthstone; 
ages  of  sunshine  can  never  restore  to  it  its  original 
warmth  I 

To  Arthur's  parents  this  affliction  was  one  of  the 
last  drops  in  a  cup  that  years  had  been  filling  to  its 
brim.  Yet  it  was  a  new  experience  of  life.  Amid 
all  their  trials  and  cares,  they  had  been  spared  the 
parting  with  their  children.  Up  to  this  time  the 
circle  had  remained  unbroken;  and  whatever  may 
be  said  to  the  contrary,  before  facts  can  prove  it,  a 
beloved  object  is  not  less  missed  and  mourned  from 
the  full,  than  from  the  scanty  household.  Eaclf 
takes  his  peculiar  place  in  the  afi'ections  of  the  rest, 
and  death  leaves  that  place  vacant;  no  other  object 
can  perfectly  fill  the  empty,  aching  spot.  Who,  of 
all  that  great  family  of  children,  could  become  Ar- 
thur?    Not  one! 

To  Hatty  the  death  of  Arthur  was  the  first  step 
in  that  process  by  which  the  great  Refiner  purified 
her  unto  Himself.     Who  is  fit  to  live  in  this  world 


THE    BROKEN    CIRCLE.  3-17 

or  to  die,  and  enter  upon  the  next,  who  has  not  suf- 
fered ?  As  well  might  the  unripe  grain  be  gathered 
in  the  harvest ! 

**  The  loving  discipline  of  pain ! "  how  good  it  is 
now  needful!  The  curtain  which  hides  from  the 
common  eye  the  realities  of  life,  was  for  Lucy  rent  in 
twain.  She  now  saw  with  distinctness  those  truths 
whose  vague  forms  she  had  dimly  traced  before,  and 
the  emptiness  and  nothingness  of  those  things  that 
once  seemed  full  and  substantial.  Laying  firmer 
hold  on  those  truths  that  are  as  an  anchor  to  the 
soul,  she  returned  soberly,  but  at  once,  to  the  duties 
of  life.  For,  changed  as  the  world  was  to  her,  and 
that  forever;  deep  and  imperishable  as  was  her  grief, 
there  was  in  her  nothing  morbid,  nothing  selfish. 
They  who  saw  her  smile  light  up  the  dark  chamber 
of  death,  who  marked  her  cheerful  submission,  her 
unshrinking  faith,  were  taught  lessons  not  too  easily 
learned,  yet  not  easy  to  forget.  There  had  ever  been 
peculiar  love  and  sympathy  between  herself  and  Ar- 
thur, and  his  maturity  of  mind  had  lessened  the  dis- 
tance years  had  placed  between  them.  Very  sorrow- 
fully she  wrote  to  her  aunt,  "  If  you  and  Helen  had 
seen  him,  I  should  mourn  him  less ! "  Yet  this  was 
but  one  of  those  delusions  with  which  the  bereaved 
heart  indulges  itself:  it  must  leave  these  tearful 
"1/5"  ere  it  can  find  rest.  The  minute  details  of  our 
afflictions    are    directed    by    Him    who    sends    th« 


348  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

sorrow  with  just  these  pamfii]  accompaniments.  Iii 
time  Lucy  learned  this,  and  saw  that  submission  to 
the  great  sorrow  involved  submission  to  its  pecu- 
liarites;  for  who  that  has  suffered  has  not  found  in 
his  lot  something  singular  aud  unique? 

The  health  of  Mrs.  Grant  had  been  failing  for  some 
years.  Her  cheerful  temper,  combined  with  not  a 
little  power  of  endurance,  kept  her  up  when  many 
would  have  fallen  fainting  by  the  way-side.  But 
Arthur's  sickness  and  death  developed  already  exist- 
ing disease,  and  gradually  she  was  laid  aside  from  her 
labors.  She  gave  up  one  care  after  another,  reluc- 
tantly, and  after  a  struggle:  at  first  she  seemed  to 
be  about  among  them  as  much  as  ever;  but,  by  de- 
grees, her  seat  at  the  table  became  vacant ;  to-day  she 
was  not  up  in  season  for  breakfast — to-morrow,  both 
breakfast  and  dinner  went  silently  through  without 
her.  Thus,  in  time,  all  the  household  care  descended 
on  Lucy;  she  became  the  "sister-mother."  The  books 
she  had  brought  home  with  her,  and  which  she 
had  felt  sure  she  could  find  a  little  time  each  day  to 
study,  lay  untouched  in  her  room.  She  rose  early, 
toiled  all  day,  went  late  to  bed;  the  work  was  never 
done.  For,  however  nicely  it  ended  with  the  day, 
did  it  not  begin  again  next  morning,  just  as  it  did 
yesterday  ?  But  she  carried  no  repining  heart  to 
her  daily  task.  She  felt  that  if  their  lives  were  all 
spared,  there  was  nothing  else  to  ask  for  but  gratefiu 


THE    BROKEN    CIRCLE.  34S 

hearts;  and  to  her,  at  least,  it  came  with  the  asking 
This  winter  offered  a  strong  contrast  to  the  last 
Then  she  was  the  admired,  envied,  advancing 
scholar,  surrounded  with  luxuries,  and  free  as  the 
air  she  breathed.  Now  she  lived  almost  unknown 
and  unnoticed,  in  the  retirement  of  an  obscure  coun- 
try village,  appreciated  and  understood  only  at  home ; 
a  mere  household  laborer  outwardly ;  bound  with  fet- 
ters that  confined  her  to  a  tread-mill  round  of  mo- 
notonous, over-recurring  tasks.  Very  patiently  she 
resigned  herself  to  her  lot;  and  every  day's  discipline, 
unconsciously  to  herself,  mellowed  and  softened  her 
character,  making  it  more  Christ-like,  compassionate, 
and  gentle.  Thus  was  she  taught  to  live  as  she 
prayed  to  live.  Not  merely  by  direct  supplies  of 
grace,  but  by  temptations  and  trials,  developing  and 
strengthening  the  new  life  within,  and  forcing 
her  to  a  closer  union  with  the  Author  of  that 
life. 

She  was  not  without  solaces  of  another  kind.  The 
affection  of  her  parents  was  like  a  living  spring,  and 
the  satisfaction  of  making  their  last  their  best  years, 
was  very  great  The  children,  too,  enlivened  and 
cheered  her;  she  felt  that  they  were  better  teachera 
than  books.  Then  there  were  long,  kind,  loving 
letters  from  her  aunt  and  Helen,  and  Mrs.  Lee;  some- 
times, too.  Miss  Prigott's  old-fashioned  characterg 
found  their  way  to  the  village  post-office,  and  thence 


350  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

to  Lucy's  heart.  Since  Arthur's  death,  Hatty  had 
ceased  from  her  restless,  capricious  mode  of  life;  she 
patiently  shared  Lucy's  labors,  and  proved  herself 
most  efficient  and  skilful. 

Meanwhile  John  secretly  carried  on  a  series  of 
experiments  in  one  corner  of  the  wood-house,  where 
he  had  made  himself  a  workshop,  on  whose  door  ap- 
peared in  large  letters  the  words,  "No  admittance.'' 
He  had  "sowed  his  wild  oats,"  he  told  Lucy,  and  would 
not  distress  her  or  his  mother  by  going  to  sea.  He 
thought  he  should  invent  something  that  would  as- 
tonish her  in  due  time;  so,  early  in  the  morning,  and 
at  all  other  leisure  moments,  he  might  be  heard, 
though  not  seen,  busy  at  his  work-bench.  Now  and 
then  the  cheerful  whistle  with  which  he  enlivened 
these  solitary  hours  would  suddenly  subside  into  a 
lower,  sadder  key,  finally  ceasing  altogether.  A  re- 
membrance of  Arthur;  an  impulse  to  call  him  to  look 
at  his  work;  the  image  of  the  loving  lost  brother; 
these  were  getting  the  victory  for  the  moment.  But 
Boon  the  boyish  spirits  would  rise  again;  the  whistle 
again  came  cheerily  in  at  the  opening  doors,  as 
Lucy  moved  about,  busy  with  her  work,  and  the 
new  invention  grew  apace  into  actual  form  and 
Bhape. 

He  came  to  her  one  day  with  a  flushed,  triumph- 
ant face.  "My  machine  works!"  he  cried;  "it 
works,    Lucy !     Come  out  now  and  see ! "     She  fol 


THE    BROKEN    CIRCLE.  351 

iowed  him,  and  he  exhibited  it  to  her;  explaining  its 
ases,  enlarging  on  its  capacities  and  beauties,  till  she 
caught  his  enthusiasm. 

"You'll  want  money  now  to  carry  your  scheme 
through,"  said  she.  "And  I've  got  some  for  youj 
you  shall  have  it  all;  I've  been  saving  it  for  you. 
How  glad  I  am !  '*  She  was  hurrying  away  in  search 
of  the  hoarded  sum — that  allowance  forced  upon  her 
by  hei  uncle,  but  still  unappropriated. 

"Thank  you,"  said  John,  catching  her  by  her 
dress,  and  bringing  her  back,  "  I  don't  need  it. 
When  uncle  was  here,  he  set  me  to  blacking  hia 
boots  one  day,  and  he  came  out  here  when  I  was 
doing  it,  and  saw  a  wind-mill  and  a  lot  of  other 
things  lying  about.  He  examined  them  all,  and  es- 
pecially that  little  steamboat:  don't  you  remember 
I  made  one  once? 

"  Well ;  at  the  time  I  was  so  crazy  to  go  to  sea, 
and  had  got  all  ready  to  go,  uncle  wrote  me  a  kind 
but  very  queer  letter,  saying  he  remembered  that 
I  had  quite  a  mechanical  genius,  and  that  it  ought 
to  be  the  making  of  me.  He  sent  a  little  money  in 
the  letter;  enough,  he  said,  to  buy  a  few  tools;  and 
promised,  if  I  would  invent  or  make  something  use- 
ful, he  would  soon  furnish  me  with  a  complete  set 
of  the  finest  tools  New  York  afforded.  He  charged 
me,  to(  *o  study  the  mathematics  diligently.  I  told 
nobod}    but  Arthur  a  word  about  it;  but  I  studied 


352  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY 

hard,  as  well  as  I  could  without  help ;  and  now  yon 
Bee  the  end  of  it!  I  mean  the  beginning:  for  tha 
end  will  be,  that  you'll  ride  in  your  coach  and 
six!" 

"  I  never  want  to  do  that,  or  anything  like  it, 
said  Lucy,  smiling,  "  but  I've  no  doubt  you're  going 
to  make   a  great   man,   and   throw  us  all  into  the 
ehade!" 

Not  a  month  after  this  conversation,  John  was 
established  by  his  uncle  in  the  family  of  a  ^Ir. 
Haskins,  where  he  could  pursue  his  mathematical 
education.  Mr.  Haskins  had  been  a  practical,  sci- 
entific engineer;  an  accident  had  laid  him  aside 
from  active  duty,  and  he  willingly  instructed  a  few 
boys.  The  understanding  between  John  and  his 
uncle  was,  that  after  the  first  year  he  should  pay  his 
own  way;  and  this,  as  the  result  proved,  he  was  able 
to  do  with  ease  as  well  as  pleasure.  One  care  was 
thus  lifted  from  the  drooping  shoulders  of  the  anx- 
ious mother;  Lucy's  labors  were  also  lightened,  and 
the  winter  closed  favorably  for  them  all.  Early  in 
the  spring  Rebecca  came  home  to  spend  a  few  weeks. 
Her  husband  had  taken  it  into  his  head,  she  said, 
to  build  a  larger  house ;  what  for,  nobody  knew  but 
himself;  but  there  was  no  use  reasoning  about  it. 
And  theirs  was  to  be  pulled  down,  or  dragged  away, 
ghe  did  not  know  which.  So  she  had  come  home 
and  very  glad  she  was  to  do  so.     At  the  time  of  Ar 


THE    BROKEN    CIRCLE.  353 

thur's  illness,  John  Wright  was  laid  up  with  a  bro- 
ken leg,  and  Rebecca  had  not  been  able  to  leave 
him  for  any  length  of  time;  she  was  now,  there- 
fore, onlj'  too  thankful  to  come  to  talk  with  them 
all  about  their  beloved  brother,  and  to  tell  Luc} 
many  little,  interesting  things,  known  only  tc 
herself. 

"1  noticed  his  cough,"  said  she,  "and  spoke  to 
mother  about  it.  But  she  thought  it  was  like  the 
one  you  had,  and  that  it  would  pass  away.'* 

*'I  know  you  did,  dear,"  replied  her  mother;  *'bu^ 
I  was  so  busy  at  that  time,  and  beginning  to  be  sicl 
myself;  and  he  seemed  so  well !  I  was  perfectly  in- 
fatuated ;  I  can  see  that  plainly.  But  God  chose  to 
have  it  so  1 " 

"I  did  not  ever  think  he  would  live  long;  at 
least,  I  never  did  after  John  spoke  to  me  about  it. 
But  I  wasn't  ready  for  it,  when  it  came !  And  it 
seemed  hard  to  be  away,  and  lose  all  his  last  words!" 
said  Rebecca.  "But  now  I  am  going  to  stay  and 
help  you  all;  and  not  make  you  cry.  When  I  first 
came  in,  I  missed  Arthur  so,  that  I  couldn't  talk 
about  anything  else." 

She  settled  herself  down  among  them,  and  the 
whole  summer  passed  before  I  he  new  house  waa 
habitable ;  so  she  remained  and  was  a  comfort  and 
help  to  them  all. 

Her  marriage  had  improved  her  not  a  little.     She 


554  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

had  been  obliged  to  depend  on  herself  as  she  nevei 
had  done;  her  husband  was  cheerful  and  kind;  there 
was  only  one  thing  wanting  to  complete  her  happi- 
ness. This  was  one  of  the  children.  She  said  it 
seemed  strange  to  see  no  little  folks  about  the  house; 
that  John  said  it  was  lonesome,  and  she  must  bring 
back  one  or  two  of  her  brothers  with  her. 

**I  should  like  to  have  Willy,"  said  she;  '^  but  1 
Buppoa*>  mother  wouldn't  spare  him." 

"  Oh,  no !  he's  my  baby  1  '*  said  his  mother,  laying 
her  hand  fondly  on  his  little  curly  head. 

"Horace  would  amuse  John,"  said  Rebecca. 

*'0h,  you  can't  have  Horace!"  cried  all  in  a  breath. 
"  He  is  such  a  rogue,  too ;  you  could  do  nothing  with 
him." 

^*The  little  ones  would  be  too  much  trouble  for 
you,  dear,"  said  her  mother.  *'  Tom  had  the  promise 
of  going;  but  he's  our  biggest  boy,  now;  the  girls 
need  him.  He's  getting  very  useful,  now.  And  you 
don't  want  him  for  that." 

"No;  besides,  he's  'most  too  good  to  suit  John. 
He  wants  to  frolic  with  whoever  he  has;  he  tried  me 
at  first,  but  it  was  of  no  use.     I  couldn't." 

The  idea  of  grave,  moderate,  staid  Rebecca,  get- 
ting into  a  frolic,  amused  Hatty.  She  began  tc 
laugh  as  heartily  as  in  olden  times;  but  suddenly 
stopped,  and  burst  into  tears.  "  How  can  I  laugh 
■o,  when  Arthur  is  dead ! "  she  cried. 


THE    BROKEN    CIRCLE.  355 

"  Do  laugh,  dear  Hatty,"  said  Lucy,  tenderly ;  '•  we 
all  know  how  you  loved  him.  Nobody  will  think 
you  have  forgotten  him !  Dear  Hatty !  do  smile 
once  more,  like  yourself!  I  do  think  it  would  rest 
me,  if  you  would  I " 

Hatty  smiled  through  her  tears ;  but  it  was  not  the 
old,  sunny  smile. 

"  No,  I  never  can  be  what  I  was  before ! "  said  she. 
"But  perhaps  I  shall  be  better!  I'm  sure  I  hope 
so!" 

"  We  haven't  decided  yet  who  Rebecca  shall  have," 
said  Lucy.  "  I  think  it  should  be  Hatty.  It  will  do 
her  good;  and  if  she  chooses,  she  may  take  one  of 
the  children  with  her,  if  mother  is  willing.  We'll 
have  somebody  come  to  wash  and  iron;  I  can  do  all 
the  rest.     And  Hatty  needs  change  and  rest." 

Her  mother  opposed  this  plan;  she  knew  that 
Lucy  could  not  bear  all  the  household  care  alone. 

"  It  is  the  will  of  God  that  I  should  sit  here,  almost 
helpless,"  said  she.  "  If  it  were  any  will  but  His,  I 
couldn't  bear  it." 

"  We  shall  get  along  nicely,  mother,"  said  Lucy. 
•'  I  feel  well,  and  able  to  do  a  great  deal;  I've  got  a 
little  money  to  help  us  along  when  we  get  into  hard 
places;  and  I'm  going  to  use  it,  in  making  things 
easy  and  pleasant  for  you.  I  hear  one  of  them  com- 
ing now."  She  ran  out,  and  soon  returned  with  a 
comfortable,  stuffed  chair,  in  which  she  helped  hei 


856  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

motbc?  to  seat  herself,  and  for  which  she  had  sent 
fif^'y  miles. 

*' There!"  she  cried,  *'all  the  books  in  the  worll 
ccildu't  make  me  so  happy  as  this  chair  does !  Noi 
ftP  the  watches,  either!"  she  added  to  herself 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 


A  :SEW  ROME, 


HE  arrangements  made  by  Liicy*s  frienda 
for  the  previous  summer,  were  now  exe- 
cuted.    The  whole  party  came  to  H , 

which  was  a  pleasant  mountainous  region, 
and  very  soon  had  established  themselves  so  agree- 
ably there,  as  to  resolve  to  make  it  their  future  sum- 
mer resort.  Lucy  had  now  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
the  meeting  between  her  mother  and  aunt;  and  was 
delighted  to  find  them  mutually  attracted  towards 
each  other.  It  was  also  delightful  to  witness  the 
renewal  of  the  school-day  friendship;  to  hear  Mrs. 
Lee  call  her  mother  *'  Sarah,"  and  to  hear  her  mother, 
in  return,  address  Mrs.  Lee  as  *' Hatty;"  just  as  if 
long,  long  years  had  not  passed  since  their  last 
meeting. 

"  I  must  let  you  see  your  name-sake,"  said  Mra 
Grant  after  the  first  greeting,  and  drawing  Hatty 
towards  Mrs.  Lee.     This  was  a  pleasant  surprise  tc 


858  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

Mrs.  Leo,  who  needed,  however,  no  proof  that  sh^ 
nad  been  beloved  and  remembered. 

"I  wish  my  brother  had  known  this,"  said  she, 
"when  he  was  so  unfortunate  as  to  irgure  one  of  your 
Bons  It  would  have  made  him  feel  that  he  knew 
you.  Mrs.  Lee  was  not  aware  that  she  was  refer- 
ring to  the  dear  boy  they  all  were  mourning,  but  their 
silence  suggested  it  to  her.  She  hastened,  therefore, 
to  change  the  subject.  Seeing  her  friends  so  often 
during  this  summer,  was  of  great  service  to  Mrs. 
Grant.  She  needed  the  gentle  stimulus  their  society 
furnished ;  Lucy  saw  with  delight  that  it  seemed  to 
reanimate  her. 

Helen  was  perfectly  contented  if  she  could  only 
be  near  Lucy;  by  degrees  she  settled  down  among 
them  as  one  of  the  family;  Hatty  charmed  her; 
such  good  boys  she  never  had  seen;  as  for  the 
bread  and  butter,  there  never  was  anything  like  it 
in  the  world. 

"  I  see  there's  no  use  in  trying  to  carry  you  ofi*," 
sne  said  one  day  to  Lucy.  "  They  can't  do  without 
you.  But  if  you'll  let  me,  I'll  come  every  summer; 
I  shall  read  to  you  and  improve  your  mind,  while 
you  make  bread  and  butter,  and  all  sorts  of  good 
things,  to  improve  my  color.  And  we'll  have  de- 
lightful times  together!"  So  she  followed  Lucy  one 
whole  day,  with  a  book  in  her  hand;  but  at  night 
she  said,  thoy  must  invent  a  new  plan:  for  the  chil  - 


A    NEW    HOME.  359 

dren  had  each  asked  one  hundred  questions,  that  had 
to  be  answered  one  hundred  times;  and  the  pot  had 
boiled  over  twice  and  put  the  fire  out;  and  Lucy 
had  got  dreadfully  tired,  with  mind  and  body  on 
the  stretch  at  once.  Then  she  thought  she  would 
help  about  the  work;  so  she  insisted  on  dressing  one 
of  the  children,  whom  she  drove  to  such  a  state  of 
desperation  by  the  length  of  the  process,  that  he  told 
his  brother  in  confidence,  that  if  people  were  going 
to  be  a  year  in  tying  his  shoes,  he  guessed  he  should 
have  to  learn  to  do  it  himself;  also  inquiring  how  Ae 
should  feel,  if  a  girl  should  button  up  one  of  her  long 
ringlets  in  his  jacket,  so  that  they  were  fastened  to- 
gether like  a  yoke  of  oxen. 

Rebecca,  however,  was  at  home;  she  smoothed 
away  some  of  the  difficulties,  and  made  time  for 
Lucy  to  devote  to  Helen.  So  the  summer  passed 
to  the  satisfaction  of  all,  and  when  Mrs.  Whittier 
and  Mrs.  Lee  departed,  it  was  in  full  expectation 
that  the  following  summer  would  reunite  the  circle. 

But  with  them,  left  also  the  transient  flash  oi 
apparent  health,  with  which  Mrs.  Grant  had  beeu 
borne  through  the  summer.  Her  strength  sank  at 
once;  she  became  helpless  as  a  child,  and  needed 
constant  attention  day  and  night.  Rebecca  was 
summoned  home  by  her  husband,  who  was  heartily 
tired  of  living  alone;  and  the  four  little  boys  went 
with  her,  at  her  urgent   request.     Indeed,    it   was 


360  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

quite  necessary  that  this  relief  should  be  furnishea 
Lucy  and  Hatty;  for  their  cares  and  anxieties  were 
now  very  great.  It  was  a  long,  hard,  sorrowful  win. 
ter:  the  smiles  of  the  patient  sufferer  alone  enlivened 
it;  for,  seeing  her  constant,  ceaseless  pain,  they 
could  not  smile;  they  could  only  try  to  imitate  her 
in  her  patience.  It  was  on  a  quiet  spring  morning 
that  the  struggle  ceased ;  and  the  face  that  had  borne 
the  impress  of  mortal  agony  for  eight  weary  months, 
shone  with  the  beauty  of  undisturbed  repose.  The 
tranquil,  benign  expression,  put  aside  for  a  season 
only  in  the  conflict  with  death,  came  back  and 
was  sealed  upon  the  brow.  They  had  not  seen  her 
look  so  like  herself  during  the  whole  weary  winter 
as  now,  when  death  restored  what  sickness  had 
taken  away.  Who  that  looked  upon  that  face, 
could  doubt  that  "all  was  well?"  Above  all,  who 
that  had  known  the  patient,  Christian,  cheerful  life, 
could  doubt  it? 

The  mourning  household  went  to  lay  her  down 
by  the  side  of  Arthur.  They  thought  they  knew 
what  sorrow  meant,  when  they  saw  the  earth  cover 
him  out  of  their  sight.  But  it  had  a  deeper  mean- 
ing now,  "  for  in  all  the  world  they  could  find  but 
one  mother." 

Once  more  the  old  routine  of  domestic  labor  was 
taken  up;  the  little  motherless  boys  clung  now  tu 
Lucy;  to  her  they  ran  with  their  childish  troubles; 


A    NEW    HOME.  361 

in  her  lap  they  hid  their  heads  and  cried,  and 
wished  mother  would  come  back.  And  while  hei 
tears  fell  upon  the  bowed  heads,  she  still  had  a 
smile  for  them,  lest  home  should  seem  too  dark 
and  gloomy;  and  the  cheering  word  for  her  fatliei 
was  not  wanting,  nor  the  loving  one  for  Hatty. 

Yet  in  all  her  life  she  never  knew  an  affliction 
like  this.  Except  as  sin  could  bear  more  bitter 
fruit,  she  was  now  enduring  the  severest  form  of 
affliction:  no  earthly  object  had  yet  come  between 
herself  and  her  mother;  and  who  has  ever  lost 
more  than  that  he  held  dearest?  It  was  finely 
said  by  an  already  bereaved  mother,  when  informed 
of  the  sudden  death  of  her  only  remaining  child,  *'  T 
see  God  means  to  have  my  whole  heart;  and  He 
shall  I"  And  so  said  Lucy  now.  From  that  hour 
when  her  mother  was  laid  in  the  grave,  God  had 
her  whole  heart.  She  devoted  herself,  if  possible, 
more  entirely,  too,  to  the  little  flock  remaining. 

The  path  of  duty  is  comparatively  easy  when 
once  made  plain.  There  had  been  some  conflicta 
in  Lucy's  mind  as  to  hers.  Mr.  Jackson  had  twice 
written  during  her  mother's  illness,  urging  her  re- 
turn. He  proposed  that  she  should  pursue  her 
studies  in  his  school  for  another  year,  and  thus 
become  qualified  to  take  a  prominent  position  as 
teacher  there.  She  had  felt  that  should  her  mo- 
ther recover,  it  might  be  best  for  her  to  do  this; 


862  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY 

Hatty,  perhaps,  could  thus  receive  the  education 
she  needed,  and  much  be  done  in  behalf  of  the  boys. 
But  there  was  no  question  as  to  her  proper  course 
now;  and  she  began  at  once  to  give  herself  to  her 
family  in   love  and  labor,  as  to  her  life-work.     The 

summer  months  brought  her  friends  again  to  H . 

They  saw  that  she  had  planted  herself  in  this  coun- 
try  home,  and  that  the  best  years  of  her  youth  must 
pass  in  the  discharge  of  the  merest  household  drudg- 
eries; in  the  ceaseless  care  of  those  restless  boys;  the 
sacrifice  of  all  her  tastes.  They  suggested  means  of 
escape;  devised  plans  among  themselves;  attempted 
to  excite  her  father's  ambition,  and  then  his  fears 
concerning  her.  But  Lucy  had  decided  for  herself; 
and  while  she  thanked  her  friends,  she  would  not 
suffer  them  to  move  her.  In  vain  they  represented 
ber  choice  as  unworthy  so  noble,  so  refined  a  nature, 
fitted  for  the  pleasures  and  the  duties  of  a  wider 
sphere;  Lucy  was  satisfied  with  being  unknown, 
with  the  "trivial  round,  the  common  task,"  with 
the  sweet  rewards  of  home-affection,  and  the  appro- 
bation of  a  conscien«e  at  peace  with  God.  What 
would  be  the  worth  of  the  highest  honors  of  this 
world  without  these? 

No  idle  time  hung  upon  Lucy's  busy  hands, 
flatty  patiently  shared  all  her  labors;  but  she 
wished  to  give  her  such  entire  change  of  scene 
and  rest  as  she  had  herself  enjoyed.     She  did  not 


A    NEW    HOME.  362 

hesitate  Lo  propose  to  her  aunt  to  take  Hatty  home 
with  her;  and  she  was  too  eager  to  gratify  hei 
slightest  wish,  to  make  such  a  proposal  improper. 

"  I  longed  to  suggest  it  myself,"  was  her  aunt's 
reply;  "but  feared  it  would  leave  you  too  lonely, 
ind  with  too  much  labor  on  your  hands." 

"  It  will  do  me  more  good  to  know  that  she  ie 
with  you  and  Helen  than  I  can  possibly  describe," 
said  Lucy. 

Hatty  was  not,  at  first,  willing  to  go.  She  knew 
better  than  any  other  member  of  the  family,  save 
Lucy,  just  what  there  was  to  do.  But  Lucy  was 
firm;  she  had  resolved  that  this  thing  should  be, 
and  her  strong  will  had  great  power  in  it.  Two 
years  ago,  on  her  own  return,  she  shrank  from  the 
thought  of  exposing  Hatty  to  temptations  for  which 
she  was  then  unprepared.  But  now  the  shield  of 
sorrow  was  about  the  young  heart;  she  felt  that 
with  God's  grace  it  could  protect  her  in  the  midst 
of  dangers. 

Hatty  went:  John  had  returned,  after  his  mo- 
thers death,  to  Mr.  Haskins.  There  were  now  left, 
for  Lucy's  love  and  care,  four  boys  from  seven 
to  thirteen;  the  baby,  Willy,  still  remained  with 
Rebecca,  who  could  not  be  induced  to  give  him  up 
Of  these  four,  Tom  was  the  eldest;  he  was  a  noble 
little  fellow,  often  getting  into  trouble,  but  always 
truthful,    affectionate,    and    full    of  penitence    aftei. 


364  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

wrong-doing.  To  him  Lucy  now  gave  Arthur's  littla 
room,  hitherto  unoccupied;  many  of  the  books  he 
loved,  and  the  seat  in  the  corner,  so  long  left 
vacant.  Tom  was  not  equal,  intellectually,  to  Ar- 
thur; he  was  small  in  stature,  and  fully  aware  of 
his  inferiority  in  that  respect.  When  his  mother 
.died,  he  thought  he  never  should  smile  again;  he 
wished  he  could  die  too,  and  have  a  little  grave 
by  her  side,  as  Arthur  had.  He  used  to  go  and 
ile  among  the  tall  grass  by  her  grave,  and  think 
how  short  and  narrow  a  strip  it  would  take  for 
him;  and  if  he  were  a  good  boy,  how  peacefully 
he  should  sleep  there.  But  by  degrees  Lucy  won 
his  confidence;  he  began  to  honor  and  love  her, 
and  to  tell  her  of  his  troubles  at  school,  and  how 
the  boys  laughed  at  him  and  called  him  "Tom 
Thumb."  Lucy  had  intended  to  keep  him  at  school 
a  few  years,  and  then,  if  advisable,  send  him  to 
college.  She  hoped  to  be  able  to  fit  him  for  it 
herself  by  the  time  he  left  the  school  in  which  he 
was  now  placed,  and  which  was  of  a  very  ordi- 
nary kind.  But  his  mortification  concerning  his 
little  stature,  now  first  revealed,  made  her  change 
this  plan.  She  took  him  from  school,  made  him 
bathe  and  take  exercise,  work  on  the  farm,  and 
amuse  himself  to  his  heart's  content.  He  had  never 
cared  for  books;  his  whole  desire  had  been  to  play; 
but  he  had  never  had  his  fill  of  that,  and  of  late 


A    NEW    HOME.  365 

he  liad  moped  about  a  good  deal.  The  result  of 
Lucy's  experiment  proved  its  wisdom.  Tom  gained 
health  and  strength  and  appetite;  and  years  after 
ward,  when  a  man,  and  six  feet  in  height,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  inches,  he  used  to  tell  Lucy  that 
she  had  made  him. 

Two  years  from  the  time  he  was  taken  from 
school,  he  began  suddenly  to  grow  tall;  strong  he 
had  already  become;  at  the  same  time  he  returned 
vigorously  to  his  studies,  and  gained  in  a  year 
what  he  had  apparently  lost  in  the  two.  Lucy 
worked  hard  to  keep  in  advance  of  him;  but  she 
succeeded,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  preparing 
him  for  college. 

"Father,"  she  said  to  him  one  evening,  when 
he  sat  looking  more  than  usually  sad,  "  can  you 
afford  to  send  one  of  the  boys  to  college?" 

"Which  of  them?"  he  asked  languidly;  "the 
baby?" 

Lucy  laughed;  "Tom  is  all  ready,"  said  she. 
"May  he  go?" 

The  languid  air  gave  way  before  this  unexpected 
news. 

"  Lucy    has    fitted    me    for    college  I "    said   To*?' 
triumphantly;  "all  herself!     Can  I  go,  father?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  and  Lucy  too,  if  she  will?"  said 
her  father,  laying  his  hand  on  her  head.  "  Deal 
ohildl  what  should  I  do  without  her?" 


366  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

"Can  you  really  afford  to  let  me  go,  father?' 
asked  Tom  again. 

"Yes,  easily.     And  to-morrow,  if  you  choose." 

Tom  caught  up  Horace,  and  threw  him  into  the 
air  like  a  ball;  he  was  half  beside  himself  with  joy. 
"You  may  hear  me  preach  yet,  father,"  said  he. 

"This  looks  like  it,  to  be  sure,"  said  Lucy 
Bmiling. 

Meanwhile  the  younger  boys  were  not  neglected: 
during  the  day  they  were  all  at  school;  but  in 
the  long  winter  evenings  Lucy  amused  and  taught 
them,  and  made  them  very  happy.  They  never 
wanted  to  lose  one  of  these  evenings  around 
(he  pine  table,  by  going  elsewhere;  and  after 
Hatty's  return,  one  of  them  read  aloud,  while 
their  sisters  were  at  work;  a  plan  of  threefold 
value,  inasmuch  as  it  beguiled  their  father  of  the 
long  evenings  his  failing  eyesight  made  useless  to 
him,  entertained  the  busy  needlewomen,  and  kept 
the  boys  employed  and  happy.  Those  who  were 
not  reading,  knit:  many  years  later,  Horace  ex- 
hibited to  'his  wife  a  towel  of  his  workmanship, 
with  which  he  had  bought  an  old  Latin  grammar. 

Thus,  year  after  year  passed.  The  days  of  Lucy's 
youth  went  too;  yet  she  remained  still  young.  One 
temptation  had  disturbed  the  even  surface  of  hei 
life;  and  for  a  season,  its  very  depths  were  stirred 
It  was  put   aside.     Its  history   was   never  written 


A    NEW    HOME.  36? 

riiousands  of  hearts  have  thus  suffered,  and  thua 
conquered.  Dr.  White  had  always  prophesied  that 
*' that  youngster"  would  come  back.  But  if  ho 
came,  he  soon  went,  and  Lucy  remained  outwardly 
the  same. 

Leaning  upon  her,  her  father  passed  serenely 
through  his  declining  years,  even  unto  death. 
Hatty  went  at  last  to  a  home  of  her  own.  The 
brothers  ceased  to  be  boys,  and  went  forth  into 
the  world.  Of  all  that  great  household,  Lucy  was 
left  the  only  one  alone.  Even  Helen's  summer 
visits  ceased  at  last.  She,  too,  was  a  wife  and  a 
mother. 

Among  all  the  homes  that  now  stretched  forth 
friendly  arms  towards  her,  to  which  should  Lucy 
go?  She  hesitated  not  long.  In  a  wide,  empty 
house,  there  dwelt  still  a  little,  old,  faded  woman; 
older,  more  faded,  more  solitary  than  when,  fifteen 
years  ago,  she  offered  a  home  to  the  young  and 
beautiful  girl.  Thither  Lucy  went;  not  now  so 
young,  but  to  many  eyes  more  beautiful.  Miss 
Prigott's  old  heart  rushed  to  meet  her.  Together 
they  sat  down  at  one  fireside;  talked  over  the 
years  that  had  passed,  and  of  the  heavenly  world 
yet  unseen.  Old  age  had  been  busy  with  the 
lonely,  childless  woman;  but  it  had  left  the  warm 
heart  untouched.  It  glowed  now  with  a  happiness 
it  had  never  known. 


368  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

Years  of  domestic  happiness  had  not  stolen  from 
Helen  her  school-day  love.  She  welcomed  Lucy 
with  all  her  old  tenderness;  and  found  her  the 
same  Lucy  with  whom  she  had  taken  sweet  coun 
Bel  in  her  girlhood.  Herself  unchanged,  save  that 
from  the  enthusiastic  dreamer,  she  had  become  the 
enthusiastic  doer  of  all  that  is  lovely  and  of  good 
report,  Helen  applauded,  rather  than  censured 
L«Hv}'*  choice  of  a  home. 

"You  are  making  Miss  Prigott's  last  days  more 
than  happy  I "  said  she.  '*  But  remember,  you  are 
mine  next!" 

By  widely  differing  paths,  Lucy  and  Helen  had 
arrived  at  nearly  the  same  point. 

God  leads  some  of  His  children  gently,  and  over 
a  smooth  and  comparatively  easy  path ;  and  to  others 
He  appoints  the  "  winding  way,  both  dark  and  rude." 
And  while  the  same  hand  leads  alike  over  the  plain 
and  through  the  intricate  way,  the  favored  pilgrim 
will  not  boast  himself,  neither  will  the  wearied  one 
repine. 

In  her  own  happy  home,  surrounded  with  every 
comfort  this  world  can  offer;  blessed  in  husband, 
blessed  in  children,  Helen  still  kept  her  eye  fixed 
upon  treasures  that  are  invisible  and  eternal.  If  liei 
leisure  and  her  wealth  were  now  almost  without 
limit,  so  were  her  acts  of  benevolence,  and  her  er 
rands  of  mercy,  and  her  "alms-deeds  which  she  did' 


A    NEW    HOME.  369 

"  You  are  my  own  child,  now  I "  Miss  Prigott  said 
fondly  to  Lucy,  every  day.  At  first  it  seemed  only 
as  an  expression  of  affection ;  but  there  are  not  want- 
ing those  in  every  community  who  are  faithless  as 
to  the  existence,  in  this  world,  of  pure  benevolence. 
What  could  induce  a  beautiful,  accomplished  young 
woman  like  Lucy  to  come  and  live  with  a  capri- 
cious, fretful,  dying  old  woman,  but  the  hope  of 
ultimate  gain? 

These  unjust  suspicions  assailed  Lucy's  ears;  foi 
a  time  disturbed  her  mind;  but  when,  shortly  after, 
Miss  Prigott  was  found  sleeping  peacefully  in  her 
bed,  that  "last  long  sleep  that  knows  no  waking;" 
and  it  was  found  that,  at  Lucy's  urgent  entreaty,  all 
her  vast  possessions  had  passed  into  the  treasury  of 
the  Lord,  busy  tongues  were  silenced,  and  envious 
ones  satisfied.  True  now  to  the  playful  promise  of 
her  youth,  Lucy  went  to  Helen,  sat  down,  as  of  old, 
at  her  side,  and  there  began  to  live  over  again  the 
happy  days  they  used  to  spend  together. 

Who  that  looked  upon  that  radiant  countenance  on 
which  the  very  peace  of  God  had  forever  stamped 
Hself,  could  venture  to  lament  the  discipline  that  had 
left  such  beautiful  traces? 

And  here  we  would  gladly  leave  her,  had  no  more 
than  one  voice,  exclaimed  against  it. 

One  of  these  voices,  familiar  to  her  youthful  eai, 
made  itself  heard  again  in  the  depths  of  her  heart 


370  THE    FLOWER    OF    THE    FAMILY. 

It  whispered  of  years  of  long  patience,  fidelity,  and 
devotion.  It  wooed  her  to  all  the  refinements  of  the 
circle  she  was  formed  to  grace;  it  gave  her  glimpses 
into  a  soul  where  she  saw  only  noble  aspirations  and 
yearnings  after  God.  At  last,  obeying  its  behests, 
ehe  went  whither  it  called  her,  found  herself  wel- 
comed into  a  warm,  manly  heart;  and  there  lived 
her  last,  which  were  also  her  best  days  I  And  thui 
was  fulfilled  the  prophecy  of  Dr.  Thorn  ton  I 


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